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INTERB 


BOOKS   BY   WAITMAN   BARB 


Famous  Poems  Explained 

Cloth,  237  pages.    $1.00  postpaid 

Going  to  College 

cloth,  104  pages.     50  cents  postpaid 

Great  Poems  Interpreted 

Cloth,  368  pages.     $1.25  postpaid 


HINDS,    NOBLE    &    ELDREDGE 
NEW  YORK  CITY 


GREAT  POEMS 
INTERPRETED 

WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  OF  THE  AUTHORS  REPRESENTED 


BY 

WAITMAN  BARBE,  A.  M.,  Litt.  D. 

PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  IN  WEST  VIRGINIA  UNIVERSITY 


5  PUBLISHERS 

HINDS,  NOBLE  &  ELDREDGE 
1-33-35  WEST  FIFTEENTH  STREET,  NEW  YORK  CITY 


Copyright,  1914,  by  Hinds,  Noble  &  Bldredge 


SAiSTA  liAliiiARA 


PREFACE 

The  wide  and  increasing  use  which  teachers  and  stu- 
dents are  making  of  Famous  Poems  Explained  seems 
to  call  for  a  second  volume  of  the  same  general  char- 
acter, but  dealing  for  the  most  part  with  poems  more 
difficult  to  understand.  It  is  hoped  that  the  present 
volume  will  be  found  useful  in  high  schools  and  colleges, 
and  in  teachers'  reading  circles. 

Every  student  of  English  and  American  literature  is 
indebted  to  a  multitude  of  other  students;  whether  or 
not  the  present  writer  has  made  diligent  investigation  on 
his  own  account,  the  following  pages  will  show. 

Most  of  these  studies  were  made  in  the  Bodleian  Li- 
brary at  Oxford  University,  and  for  the  courteous  as- 
sistance of  the  officers  of  that  institution,  thanks  are 
here  expressed. 

W.  B. 
West  Virginia  University, 

January,  1914. 


CONTENTS 

TITLE                                                                                                   AUTHOR  PACK 

Corinna's  Going  a-Maying Robert  Hcrrick  7 

Lycidas John   Milton  19 

Alexander's    Feast John  Drydcn  37 

The  Bard Thomas  Gray  51 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Church-yard.  .  .Thomas  Gray  05 

The  Deserted  Village Oliver  Goldsmith  79 

To  Mary William  Coicpcr  95 

Highland  Mary Robert  Burns  103 

Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  Above  Tintern  Abbey 

William  Wordsworth  109 
Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollections  of 

Early  Childhood Williatn  Wordsivorth  129 

Rome   (From  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage)  .  .Lord  Byron  145 

Days Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  153 

The   Problem Ralph    Waldo   Emerson  157 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  167 

The  Cloud Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  179 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale John  Keats  189 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn John  Keats  201 

The  Sermon  of  Saint  Francis 

Henry  W^adsivorth  Longfellow  211 
Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  217 

Ulysses Lord  Tennyson  225 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington 

Lord  Tennyson  235 

The  Lady  of  Shalott Lord  Tennyson  255 

Merlin  and  the  Gleam Lord  Tennyson  269 

Andrea  del  Sarto Robert  Browning  2S1 

The  Lost  Leader Robert  Broivning  299 

Philomela Matthew  Arnold  307 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece ;  or,  The  Wonderful  One- 

Hoss  Shay Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  313 

Rhoecus James  Russell  Lowell  321 

The  Shepherd  of  King  Admetus.  . .  .James  Russell  Lowell  329 

The  Blessed  Damozel Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  335 

A  Group  of  Sonnets — TFi7/iawi  Shakespeare,  John  Milton, 

William    Wordsicorth,    John    Keats,    Dante    Gabriel 

Rossetti.  347 

Biographical  Notes.  357 

3 


Corinna*s  Going  a- Maying 


CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING 

The  joy  of  this  life  was  Robert  Herrick's  habitual 
theme.  His  special  province  was  the  joy  of  country  life. 
Corimia's  Going  a-Maying  is  not  only  an  exquisite  and 
enticing  piece  of  writing,  but  it  is  the  best  expression 
in  literature  of  one  of  the  most  interesting  phases  of 
English  social  life ;  and  the  poem  yields  its  full  meaning 
only  to  those  who  know  what  May-Day  meant  during  a 
period  of  at  least  four  centuries.  Home's  Every  Day 
Book  says:  "This  was  the  great  rural  festival  of  our 
forefathers.  Their  hearts  responded  merrily  to  the 
cheerfulness  of  the  season.  At  the  dawn  of  May  morning 
the  lads  and  lassies  left  their  towns  and  villages,  and 
repairing  to  the  woodlands  by  sound  of  music,  they 
gathered  the  'may,'  or  blossomed  branches  of  the  trees, 
and  bound  them  with  wreaths  of  flowers ;  then  returning 
to  their  homes  by  sunrise  they  decorated  the  lattices  and 
doors  with  the  sweet-smelling  spoil  of  their  joyous 
journey,  and  spent  the  remaining  hours  in  sports  and 
pastimes." 

Elsewhere  the  same  authority  says;  "In  the  16th 
century  it  was  still  customary  for  the  middle  and  humble 
classes  to  go  forth  at  an  early  hour  of  the  morning  in 
order  to  gather  flowers  and  hawthorn  branches,  which 
they  brought  home  about  sunrise,  with  accompaniments 
of  horn  and  tabour  and  all  possible  signs  of  joy  and 
merriment.  With  these  spoils  they  would  decorate 
every  door  and  window  in  the  village.     By  a  natural 

7 


8  CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING 

transition  of  ideas,  tliey  gave  to  the  haAvthorn  blossom 
the  name  of  May;  they  called  this  ceremony  'the  bring- 
ing home  the  May';  they  spoke  of  the  expedition  to  the 
woods  as  'going  a-]\laying'.  The  fairest  maid  of  the  vil- 
lage was  crowned  with  flowers  as  the  'Queen  of  the 
May';  the  lads  and  lassies  met,  danced  and  sang  to- 
gether. .  .  .  In  a  somewhat  earlier  age  ladies  and 
gentlemen  Avere  accustomed  to  join  in  the  Maj'ing  festivi- 
ties. Even  the  king  and  queen  condescended  to  mingle 
on  this  occasion  with  their  subjects." 

In  The  Court  of  Love,  formerly  attributed  to  Chaucer, 
we  read  that  early  on  }iIay-Day  "forth  goeth  all  the 
court,  both  most  and  least,  to  fetch  the  flowers  fresh." 
In  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII  the  heads  of  the  corporation 
of  London  "went  out  into  the  high  grounds  of  Kent  to 
gather  the  May,  the  King  and  his  Queen,  Catherine  of 
Aragon,  coming  from  their  palace  of  Greenwich  and 
meeting  these  respected  dignitaries  on  Shooter's  Hill." 

Henry  Bourne  in  Antiquities  of  the  Common  People, 
published  1725,  says:  "The  after  part  of  May-Day  is 
chiefly  spent  in  dancing  round  a  tall  Poll,  which  is  called 
a  May  Poll ;  which  being  placed  in  a  convenient  part  of 
the  village  stands  there  as  it  were  consecrated  to  the 
Goddess  of  Flowers,  wdthout  the  least  violation  offered  to 
it,  in  the  whole  circle  of  the  year. ' ' 

The  good  Philip  Stubbes  did  not  approve  of  these 
frivolities,  but  his  description  of  them,  in  his  Anatomy 
of  Abuses,  1583,  is  interesting:  "Their  chiefest  Jewell 
they  bring  from  thence  is  their  Male  poole,  whiche  they 
bring  home  with  greate  veneration,  as  thus.  They  have 
twentie  or  fourtie  yoke  of  oxen,  every  oxe  havyug  a 


CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING  9 

sweete  nosegaie  of  flowers  tyed  on  the  tippe  of  his  homes, 
and  these  oxen  drawe  home  this  Maie  poole,  whiche  is 
covered  all  over  with  flowers  and  hearbes,  bounde 
rounde  aboute  with  stringes  from  the  toppe  to  the  bot- 
tome,  and  sometyme  painted  with  variable  colours,  with 
two  or  three  hundred  men,  women,  and  children  follow- 
yng  it,  with  greate  devotion.  And  thus  beyng  reared  up, 
with  handkerchiefs  and  flagges  streaming  on  the  toppe, 
they  strawe  the  grounde  aboute,  binde  greene  boughes 
aboute  it,  sett  up  Sommer  Bowers  and  Arbours  hard  by 
it.  And  then  fall  they  to  banquet  and  feast,  to  leape 
and  daunce  aboute  it,  as  the  Heathen  people  did  at  the 
dedication  of  their  Idolles,  whereof ,  this  is  the  perfect 
patterne,  or  rather  the  thyng  itself." 

An  anonymous  writer  early  in  the  17th  century  says : 
"In  the  month  of  May,  namely  on  May-Day  in  the  morn- 
ing, every  man,  except  impediment,  would  walke  into 
the  sweete  meddowes  and  green  woods,  there  to  re  Joyce 
their  spirits  with  the  beauty  and  savour  of  sweet  flowers, 
and  with  the  harmonic  of  birds  praising  God  in  their 
kinde.  .  .  .  The  citizens  of  London,  of  all  estates, 
had  their  severall  Mayings,  and  did  fetch  in  May-poles ; 
with  divers  warlike  shewes,  with  good  archers,  morrice- 
dancers,  and  other  devises  for  pastime  all  the  day  long ; 
and  towards  the  evening  they  had  stage-plaies,  and 
bone-fires  in  the  streets." 

In  Shakespeare 's  King  Henry  VIII  there  is  this  refer- 
ence to  the  universality  of  the  May-Day  custom : 

Pray,  sir,  be  patient ;  'tis  as  much  impossible 
(Unless  we  sweep  them  from  the  door  with  cannons) 
To  scatter  'em  as  'tis  to  make  'em  sleep 
On  May-Day  morning ;  which  will  never  be. 


10  CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING 

When  the  Puritans  came  into  power  they  suppressed 
all  festivities,  i\Iay-Day  along  with  the  rest.  On  April 
6,  1644,  Parliament  ordered : 

"The  lords  and  commons  do  further  order  and  or- 
dain, that  all  and  singular  may-poles,  that  are  or  shall 
be  erected,  shall  be  taken  down,  and  removed  by  the 
constables,  boss-holders,  tithing-men,  petty  constables, 
and  churchwardens  of  the  parishes,  where  the  same  be, 
and  that  no  ]\Iay-pole  be  hereafter  set  up  within  this 
kingdom  of  England  or  dominion  of  "Wales;  the  said 
officers  to  be  fined  five  shillings  weekly  till  the  said  ]\Iay- 
pole  be  taken  down. ' ' 

But  with  the  restoration  of  Charles  II  came  the  restor- 
ation of  ]\Iay-poles  and  ]\Iay-Day  festivities.  On  the 
first  May-Day  after  the  Restoration  a  May-pole  was  set 
up  in  the  Strand  with  great  ceremony  and  rejoicing; 
"little  children  did  much  rejoice,  and  ancient  people  did 
clap  their  hands  saying,  golden  days  began  to  appear." 

Thereafter  for  a  hundred  years  no  other  social  cus- 
tom of  rural  England  was  so  full  of  the  joyous  spirit  as 
the  celebration  of  May-Day.  But  the  custom  gradually 
died  out,  and  has  not  been  observed  for  perhaps  a  hun- 
dred years,  except  in  a  very  few  places.  The  Gentle- 
man's Magazine  for  1822  says:  "]\Iay-poles  are  still 
erected  but  the  May-games  are  utterly  lost."  One  fea- 
ture of  these  games,  however,  the  Morris-dance,  still 
lingers  to  this  day  in  a  few  sections  of  rural  England. 

R.  Chambers,  in  The  Book  of  Bays,  published  at  Ed- 
inburgh, 1863,  says:  "One  of  the  London  parishes  takes 
its  distinctive  name  from  the  May-Pole  which  in  olden 
times  overtopped  its  steeple.    The  Parish  is  that  of  St. 


CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING  11 

Andrew  Undershaft  ....  Stow,  who  is  buried  in  this 
church,  tells  us  that  in  his  time  the  shaft  was  set  up 
'every  year,  on  May-day  in  the  morning'  by  the  exulting 
Londoners  'in  the  midst  of  the  street  before  the  south 
door  of  the  said  church ;  which  shaft,  when  it  was  set 
up  and  fixed  in  the  ground,  was  higher  than  the  church 
steeple. '  During  the  rest  of  the  year  the  pole  was  hung 
upon  iron  hooks  above  the  door  of  the  neighboring 
houses,  and  immediately  beneath  the  projecting  pent- 
houses which  kept  the  rain  from  their  doors.  It  was 
destroyed  in  a  fit  of  Puritanism  in  the  third  year  of 
Edward  VI  after  a  sermon  preached  at  St.  Paul's  Cross 
against  May  games,  when  the  inhabitants  of  these 
houses  'sawed  it  in  pieces,  everie  man  taking  for  his 
share  as  much  as  had  layne  over  his  doore  and  stall,  the 
length  of  the  house,  and  they  of  the  alley  divided 
amongst  them  so  much  as  had  layne  over  their  alley 
gate '  .  .  .  .  Scattered  in  some  of  the  more  remote  Eng- 
lish villages  are  a  few  of  the  old  IMay-poles.  One  still 
does  duty  as  a  supporter  of  a  weathercock  in  the  church- 
yard at  Pendleton,  Manchester;  others  might  be  cited 
serving  more  ignoble  uses  than  they  were  originally  in- 
tended for.  The  custom  of  dressing  them  with  May 
garlands,  and  dancing  around  them,  has  departed  from 
utilitarian  England,  and  the  jollity  of  old  country  cus- 
toms given  way  to  the  ceaseless  labouring  monotony  of 
commercial  town  life." 

Robert  Herrick  lived  in  the  17th  century  (1591-1674) 
when  English  country  life  was  full  of  simple,  natural, 
unrestrained  enjoyment,  and  was  not  the  dull  sodden 
thing  it  has  come  to  be  in  our  time.    He  was  the  vicar 


12  CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MATING 

of  a  little  country  cliiircli,  and  many  of  kis  poems  con- 
tain references  to  some  of  the  forms  of  the  church. 
May-Day  customs  are  mentioned  by  Chaucer,  Spenser, 
Shakespeare,  Dryden  and  many  of  the  other  early  poets, 
but  Ilerrick's  poem  is  the  supreme  expression  of  their 
spirit  as  it  blassomed  with  the  flowers  through  the 
centuries. 

corinna's  going  a-maying 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame !    The  blooming  morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unsliorn. 

See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 

Fresh-quilted  eolours  through  the  air ! 

Get  up,  sweet  Slug-a-bed,  and  see  5 

The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept,  and  bowed  toward  the  east 
Above  an  hour  since ;  j^et  you  not  drost  — 

Nay!  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed, 

"When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said,  10 

And  sung  their  thankful  hymn :  'tis  sin, 

Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in  — 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 

Rise,  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen  15 

To  come  forth,  like  the  Spring-time,  fresh  and  green, 


the  god  unsliorn — (line   2) — Apollo,   the   sun. 

Aurora  (."?)  —  the  goddess  of  moniiniu'. 

hoired  touard  Ihc  cast  (7) — this  is  one  of  many  references  in 
Herrick's  poems   to   rellfrious  ceremonies. 

matins    (10)  — morning  songs  of  praise. 

tchenas  (13) — whereas;  while. 

May  (14)  — blossoms  of  the  hawthorn  ;  hence  the  tree  itself:  so  call- 
ed because  it  blooms  in  the  month  of  May. 


CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING  13 

And  Sweet  as  Flora.    Take  no  care 

For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair: 

Fear  not;  the  leaves  will  strew 

Gems  in  abundance  upon  you:  20 

Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept : 

Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 

Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night : 

And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill  25 

Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you  come  forth.    Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in  praying : 
Few  beads  are  best,  when  once  we  go  a-]\Iaying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come !  and  coming,  mark 

How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street  a  park  30 

Made  green,  and  trimmed  with  trees :  See  how 

Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 

Or  branch :  each  porch,  each  door,  ere  this, 

An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Made  up  of  white-thorn  neatly  interwove,  35 

As  if  here  were  those  eooler  shades  of  love. 

Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 

And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see't? 

Come,  we'll  abroad:  and  let's  obey 

The  proclamation  made  for  May :  40 


Flora  (17)  — The  goddess  of  flowers.  Her  festival  was  celebrated  at 
the  beginning  of  May. 

Orient  pearls  unwept   (22)  — dew-drops. 

Titan  (25)  —  here  means  the  sun. 

leads    (28)  —  prayers. 

each  field  turns  a  street  (30)  — becomes  like  a  street  full  of  young 
people. 


14  CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MATING 

And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  stajnng : 
But,  my  Corinna,  come;  let's  go  a-Maying. 
There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl,  this  day, 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 

A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come  45 

Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 

Some  have  despatched  their  cakes  and  cream, 

Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream : 
And  some  have  wept,  and  wooed,  and  plighted  troth. 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth :  50 

Many  a  green -gown  has  been  given : 

IMany  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even : 

Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 

From  out  the  eye.  Love 's  firmament : 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying  55 

This  night,  and  locks  picked :  —  Yet  we're  not  a-Maying. 

Come !  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime, 
And  take  the  hai-mless  folly  of  the  time ! 

We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty.  60 

Our  life  is  short:  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun : 
And  as  a  vapour,  or  a  drop  of  rain 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again; 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made  65 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 


cakes    and   cream    (47) — the   universal    custom   was    to   eat    cakes 
and   cream    on   May-Day  morning. 

lejt  to  dream   (48) — ceased  dreaming. 
prcen-rjown    (51) — tumble    on    the    grass. 
both  odd  and  even   (52)  —a  game  of  chance. 


CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MATING  15 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 

Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna,  come!  let's  go  a-Maying.  70 

—  Robert  Herrick. 


An  interesting  May-Day  custom  survives  at  Magdalen  College,  Ox- 
ford. Every  May-Day  morning  at  five  o'clock,  a  Latin  hymn  to  the 
Holy  Trinity  is  sung  on  the  summit  of  the  college  tower  by  the 
college  choir  in  their  surplices.  The  choir  is  considered  the  finest 
in  England.     The  custom  has  obtained  for  several  centuries. 

Felix  E.  Schelling  says  (Seventeenth  Century  Lyrics)  :  "There 
are  some  of  us  who  feel  that  we  could  no  more  spare  the  dainty 
grace  and  beauty  of  Corinna^s  Going  a-Maying  than  we  could  en- 
dure to  lose  a  book  of  Paradise  Lost!" 

F.  T.  Palgrave,  in  the  Golden  Treasury  says :  "A  lyric  more 
faultless  and  sweet  than  this  cannot  be  found  in  any  literature. 
Keeping  with  profound  instinctive  art  within  the  limits  of  the  key 
chosen,  Herrick  has  reached  a  perfection  very  rare  at  any  period 
of  literature  in  the  tones  of  playfulness,  natural  description,  pas- 
sion, and  seriousness,  which  introduce  and  follow  each  other  like 
the  motives  in  a  sonata  by  Weber  or  Beethoven,  throughout  this 
little  masterpiece  of  music  without  notes." 

Spenser,  in  The  Shepherd's  Calendar,  1579-80,  says: 
Is  not  thilke  the  mcry  moneth  of  May, 
When   love-lads   masken   in  fresh   aray? 
How  falles  it,  then,  we  no  merrier  bene, 
Ylike  as  others,  girt  in  gawdy  greene? 
Our  bloncket  liveryes  bene  all  to  sadde 
For  thilke  same  season,  when  all  is  ycladd 
With  pleasaunce :   the  grawnd  with  grasse,  the  Woods 
With    greene    leaves,    the    bushes    with    bloosming    buds. 
Yougthes  folke  now  flocken  in  every  where, 
To  gather  May  bus-kets  and  smelling  brere : 
And  home  they  hasten   the  postes  to  dight, 
And  all  the  Kirke  pillours  eare  day  light, 
With  Hawthorne  buds  and  swete  Eglantine, 
And  girlonds  of  roses,  and  Sopps  in  wine. 
Such   merimake   holy   Saints   doth   queme,    [please] 
But  we  here  sitten  as  drownd  in  a  dreme. 


Lycidas 


IT 


LYCIDAS  19 


LYCIDAS 


Those  who  think  that  poetry  should  be  the  spontan- 
eous expression  of  personal  feeling,  simple  and  direct, 
do  not  take  kindly  to  Milton's  Lycidas;  but  those  who 
enjoy  a  work  of  art,  finished  to  perfection,  richly  inlaid 
with  rare  gems  from  every  clime,  and  profusely  over- 
wrought with  exquisite  traceries,  find  in  this  poem  a 
source  of  perpetual  delight.  So  many  are  its  riches,  it 
must  be  read  again  and  again  before  they  are  fully 
comprehended.  At  first  they  dazzle  but  do  not  satisfy. 
Every  gem  must  be  studied  in  itself  as  well  as  in  its 
setting. 

Lycidas  is  an  elegy  for  Edward  King,  one  of  Milton's 
college  friends  at  Cambridge,  who  lost  his  life  in  a 
shipwreck  in  the  Irish  Channel  August  10,  1637.  King 
was  a  young  man  of  much  promise,  a  writer  of  poetry, 
and  a  student  for  the  Church  of  England  ministry. 
Shortly  after  his  unfortunate  death  Cambridge  Uni- 
versity decided  to  publish  a  collection  of  memorial  verses 
as  a  tribute  to  his  memory.  At  that  time  such  publica- 
tions were  quite  common,  and  it  is  not  to  be  expected 
that  they  were  all  expressions  of  deep  personal  grief. 
The  Cambridge  volume,  or  rather  two  volumes,  appeared 
the  following  year  and  contained,  along  with  thirty-five 
other  tributes  to  King,  Milton's  Lycidas.  The  poem  is 
in  the  pastoral  style :  it  is  a  pastoral  elegy.  A  pastoral, 
strictly  speaking,  is  a  poem  about  shepherds  and  deals 
with  country  life  in  an  artificial  way.  "Lycidas"  is  the 
name  given  in  this  poem  to  Edward  King.    It  is  a  com- 


20  LYCIDAS 

mon  name  in  old  pastoral  poetry  for  a  shepherd,  and 
this  is  why  Milton  uses  it.  The  poet  represents  himself 
also  as  a  shepherd,  lamenting  the  untimely  death  of  an- 
other shepherd  (King)  whom  he  loved  and  who  had  been 
his  companion.  This  lament  takes  the  manner  of  the  old 
classic  pastorals  and  is  not  at  all  in  the  style  of  a 
modern  English  cry  of  grief.  All  sorts  of  personages 
and  characters  are  introduced,  and  classic  allusions 
abound  in  nearly  every  line.  For  the  purpose  of  analy- 
sis I  have  divided  the  poem  into  nine  sections,  though 
it  is  not  ordinarily  so  printed. 

Section  1  {lines  1-36)  is  introductory.  He  addresses 
the  laurel,  the  myrtle,  and  the  ivy,  —  emblems  of  poetry, 
love,  and  learning  —  and  explains  to  them  why  he  is 
going  to  write  "once  more."  It  had  been  three  years 
since  he  had  written  a  poem  (Comus),  and  he  writes 
now  only  because  of  the  sad  occasion,  the  death  of  his 
friend  Lycidas  (King).  Then  he  implores  the  Muses, 
"the  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well,"  to  begin  the  dirge,  for 
in  the  same  way  he  hopes  that  when  his  own  time  shall 
come  some  "gentle  Muse,"  or  poet,  will  lament  for  him. 
Surely  he  has  good  cause  to  mourn  for  Lyeidas,  for  they 
were  children  together,  shepherds  together,  fed  the  same 
flocks,  and  played  the  "oaten  flute"  together,  ■while 
fauns  and  satyrs  danced;  and  Damaetas  approved  their 
song.  Damaetas  is  a  name  in  old  pastoral  poetry  for 
the  master  of  the  shepherds.  It  may  possibly  refer  here 
to  Dr.  Chappell,  a  tutor  at  Cambridge  in  Milton's  time. 

The  elegy  proper  begins  with  Section  2  (lines  37-49). 
All  nature  mourns:  woods,  caves,  willows,  hazel-copses. 
The  death  of  Lycidas  is  to  them  as  the  canker  to  the 


LTCIDAS  21 

rose,  the  taint-worm  to  the  herds,  or  frost  to  flowers. 
Notice  that  the  objects  of  nature  introduced  are  such  as 
a  shepherd  would  be  familiar  with. 

In  Section  3  {li7ies  50-64)  he  upbraids  the  Nymphs 
for  not  protecting  Lycidas  from  drowning.  He  accuses 
them  of  not  being  where  they  should  have  been,  on  the 
top  of  Mona  (the  isle  of  Anglesey  in  the  Irish  Channel) 
or  on  the  steep  nearby  where  ' '  the  famous  Druids  lie, ' '  or 
where  the  Deva  (the  river  Dee)  flows  into  the  Channel. 
These  are  all  near  where  King  was  drowned.  Then  the 
poet  remembers  that  even  if  they  had  been  there  they 
could  have  done  nothing,  for  even  the  Muse  herself 
(referring  to  Calliope,  the  Muse  of  epic  poetry)  was  not 
able  to  save  her  own  son  Orpheus  when  he  was  torn  to 
pieces  and  his  head  was  thro"RTi  into  the  Hebros  river 
and  carried  to  the  island  of  Lesbos.  If  the  Muse  was 
not  able  to  save  her  own  son,  surely  the  Nymphs  would 
not  have  been  able  to  save  Lycidas  even  if  they  had  been 
present. 

Section  4  (lines  64-84)  is  a  digression.  Here  Milton 
interrupts  his  lament  for  Lycidas  and  inserts  a  passage 
on  fame.  The  reference  here  is  to  himself.  "He  pro- 
claims his  convictions  concerning  the  high  office  of  poot, 
which  his  contemporaries  regarded  so  lightly,  the  dignity 
of  learning  and  study,  and  the  worth  of  true  fame," 
(W.  A.  Verity).  What  profit  is  there,  he  asks,  in  taking 
unceasing  care  and  writing  serious  poetry  ?  Would  it  not 
be  better  to  write  the  popular  love-poetry  of  the  period 
—  to  sport  with  the  shepherdesses  Amaryllis  and  Neara, 
as  Herrick,  Lovelace,  Suckling  and  other  poets  of  the  time 
were  doing?    Fame  may  serve  as  a  spur  to  labor  and 


22  LYCIDAS 

hard  study  and  the  scorn  of  delights,  but  just  when 
fame  is  about  to  be  attained  Fate  or  Death  clips  the 
thread  of  life.  But  Phoebus  Apollo,  the  Greek  god  of 
song,  checks  him  in  this  thought  and  tells  him  that  true 
fame  is  not  an  earthly  thing:  it  exists  only  through  the 
final  approval  of  Jove,  and  the  reward  is  in  Heaven. 
Death  cuts  short  life  but  not  true  fame. 

In  Section  5  (lines  85-103)  he  takes  up  the  main 
theme  again  and  apologizes  to  the  Muse  of  pastoral 
poetry  for  the  digression.  The  fountain  of  Arethusa 
typifies  Greek  pastoral  verse  and  the  river  Mincius, 
Latin  pastoral  verse.  He  tells  the  Muse  that  the  strain 
he  has  just  been  listening  to,  the  voice  of  Apollo  about 
true  fame,  was  a  higher  mood.  Then  his  tune  on  the 
pastoral  pipe  (''oaten  reed")  proceeds.  He  listens  to 
Triton,  the  herald  of  the  sea,  summoning  in  behalf  of 
'Neptune,  the  god  of  the  sea,  a  court  of  inquiry.  He 
asks  the  winds  and  the  waves  what  hard  misfortune  had 
doomed  Lycidas  to  a  watery  grave:  but  they  do  not 
know.  Hippotades  (Aeolus,  the  god  of  the  winds) 
answers  for  them,  that  the  air  was  calm  and  that  Panope 
(one  of  the  sea  Nymphs)  was  playing  with  her  sisters 
on  the  smooth  sea.  There  was  no  storm:  it  was  the 
fault  of  the  poorly-built  ship  in  which  Lycidas  sailed. 

In  Section  6  (Ihies  103-131)  the  chief  mourners  are 
introduced.  First  comes  Camus,  the  spirit  of  the  river 
Cam  and  therefore  of  Cambridge  University,  "footing 
slow,"  for  the  Cam  is  a  sluggish  stream.  "The  sanguine 
flower  inscribed  with  woe"  is  the  hyacinth.  "Hyaein- 
thus,  son  of  a  Spartan  king,  was  killed  by  Zephyrus  and 
fi'om  his  blood  sprang  the  flower  named  after  him,  on 


LYCIDAS  23 

the  petals  of  which  could  be  traced  ai,  ai,  'alas!  alas!'  " 
Last  comes  St.  Peter,  representing  not  particularly  the 
Roman  church  but  the  eh  arch  as  a  whole.  Camus  repre- 
sents learning  and  St.  Peter  religion,  both  mourning  for 
Lycidas.  In  this  section  occurs  a  very  severe  and  a  very 
famous  censure  of  the  Church  of  England.  ]\Iilton  him- 
self at  one  time  intended  to  take  "holy  orders,"  that  is, 
become  a  clergyman,  but  the  condition  of  the  church 
disgusted  him.  Contemporary  documents  show  that 
many  of  the  clergy  were  ignorant,  indifferent,  and 
drunken.  Moreover  Archbishop  Laud,  a  despotic  and 
meddlesome  bigot,  was  treating  the  Nonconformists,  or 
those  who  did  not  believe  in  the  Established  Church, 
with  the  greatest  severity  and  was  at  that  time  prepar- 
ing a  liturgy  which  was  to  arouse  all  Scotland  to  rebel- 
lion. There  had  been  no  Parliament  for  eight  years  and 
no  check  of  any  kind  was  put  on  his  actions.  These 
facts  must  be  remembered  before  the  terrible  arraign- 
ment of  the  Anglican  Church  in  lines  113-130  can  be 
understood.  A  study  of  English  history  in  the  time  of 
Milton  will  wonderfully  illuminate  this  passage.  "The 
grim  wolf  with  the  privy  paw"  is  either  the  Papal  party 
or  the  Romanizing  section  of  the  Established  Church,  or 
both.  Exactly  what  is  meant  by  the  **  two-handed  en- 
gine" is  not  clear,  except  that  it  is  retribution  in  some 
terrible  form  —  some  two-handed  sword  of  justice  which 
was  to  fall  upon  the  Church  of  England.  The  axe  is  to 
be  laid  to  the  root  of  the  tree.  It  should  be  borne  in 
mind  that  Milton's  deepest  eonviction  was  that  there 
should  be  no  such  thing  as  an  Established  Church  or 
state-paid  clergy. 


24  LTCIDAS 

In  Ruskin's  Sesame  and  Lilies  (paragraphs  20-25  of 
the  lecture  on  "King's  Treasures")  will  be  found  an  in- 
teresting discussion  of  this  passage.     (See  notes.) 

Section  7  {lines  132-165)  resumes  the  pastoral  strain. 
Once  more  he  recalls  the  pastoral  Muse.  Alpheus,  a 
river  of  Peloponnesus,  symbolizes  the  pastoral  poetry  of 
the  Greeks;  the  dread  voice  to  which  Milton  has  been 
listening  in  the  preceding  section  had  checked  the  course 
of  his  pastoral  musings.  Now  he  invokes  the  Muse  to 
bid  the  vales  and  streams  and  hills  to  strew  the  hearse  of 
Lycidas  with  their  choicest  flowers :  primrose,  jessamine, 
pink,  violet,  muskrose,  woodbine,  cowslip,  amaranth,  and 
daffodil.  He  eases  his  grief  with  this  thought,  though  he 
remembers,  alas,  that  there  is  no  hearse,  the  body  has  not 
been  recovered :  perchance  it  is  being  borne  to  the  Heb- 
rides, or  to  where  the  Cornish  giant  Bellerus  lies,  or  to 
where  the  "vision"  or  spirit  of  St.  ]\Iichael  looks  toward 
Namancos  and  Bayonne  in  old  Castile.  The  "guarded 
mount"  is  St.  Michael's  off  Penzance,  and  the  "angel" 
to  whom  the  poet  appeals  to  melt  with  pity  and  look 
homeward  is  St.  Michael.  Then  he  appeals  to  the  dolph- 
in {see  note)  to  guide  the  luckless  Lycidas  home. 

Section  8  {lines  165-185)  is  the  concluding  passage 
of  the  elegy  proper.  In  it  the  mourning  shepherd  tells 
the  other  shepherds  to  weep  no  more,  for  Lycidas  is  in- 
deed not  dead :  he  has  gained  eternal  life  through  Christ, 
through  "Him  that  walked  the  waves."  He  is  in  the 
kingdom  of  the  blest ;  all  the  saints  above  minister  to  him 
and  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes.  Then,  ad- 
dressing Lycidas,  he  says  that  henceforth  his  spirit  shall 
be  the  good  genius  that  shall  guard  the  shore  where  the 


LYCIDAS  25 

ship  went  down.  Mr.  Verity  says,  "This  introduction 
of  a  Pagan  belief  immediately  after  the  reference  to  the 
Scriptural  idea  of  the  'communion  of  the  saints,'  and 
the  Scriptural  language,  is  another  instance  of  that 
blending  of  the  classics  and  Christianity  which  is  so 
marked  a  feature  of  Lycidas." 

Section  9  is  an  epilogue,  in  which  Milton,  still  calling 
himself  a  shepherd  and  an  "uncouth  swain,"  says  that 
having  finished  his  lament,  and  the  evening  having  come 
on,  he  arose  and  gathered  his  shepherd's  mantle  about 
him;  tomorrow  he  will  set  out  for  "fresh  woods,  and 
pastures  new". 

ANALYSIS 

Mr.  W.  Bell  (notes  in  "The  Golden  Treasury") 
gives  the  following  analysis : 

I.  The  pastoral  proper   (the  poet  sings  as  shepherd)  : 

1.  Occasion  of  the  poem,  lines  1-14. 

2.  Invocation  of  the  Muses,  15-22. 

3.  Poet's  personal  relations  with  Lycidas,  23-36. 

4.  Strain  of  sorrow  and  indignation ;  the  loss  great  and  inex- 

plicable : — 

(1)  Poet's  own  sense  of  loss,  37-49. 

(2)  The  guardian  Nymphs  could  not  prevent  it,  50-57. 

(3)  The  Muse  herself  could  not  prevent  it,  though  he  was 

her  true  son,  58-63. 
(First  rise  to  a  higher  mood:  the  true  poet  and  the 
nature  of  his  reward),  64-84. 

(4)  Neptune  was  not  to  blame  for  the  loss,  85-102. 

(5)  Camus,    representing    Cambridge,    bewails    his    loss, 

103-107. 
(0)    St.  Peter,  the  guardian  of  the  Church,  sorely  misses 
Lycidas  as  a  true  son,  108-112. 
(Second  rise  to  a  higher  mood :  The  false  sons  of  the 
Church   and  their  coming  ruin),   113-131. 

(7)  All  nature  may  well  mourn  his  loss,  132-151. 

(8)  Sorrow    loses    itself   in    "false    surmise,"    and    hope 

arises,  152-164. 


26  LYCIDAS 

5.  Strain  of  joy  and  hope :  Lycidas  is  not  dead,  165-185. 
'II.  The  EJpilogue  (the  poet  reviews  the  shepherd's  song),  186-193. 

LYCIDAS 

"In  this  Monody  the  author  bewails  a  learned  Friend,  unfortu- 
nately drown'd  in  his  passage  from  Chester  on  the  Irish  Seas, 
1637 ;  and  by  occasion  foretells  the  ruine  of  our  corrupted  Clergie 
then  in  their  height." 


Yet  once  more,  0  ye  laurels,  and  once  more, 

Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 

I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 

And  with  forced  fingers  rude 

Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year.  5 

Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear. 

Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due ; 

For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 

Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 

Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ?  he  knew  10 

Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 

He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 

Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 

Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin,  then.  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well,  15 

That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse; 
So  may  some  gentle  IMuse, 
With  lucky  words  favour  my  destined  urn,  20 


Sisters  of  the  sacred  well,  etc.  (lines  15-16) — the  "Sisters"  are 
the  nine  muses,  the  "well"  Is  the  fountain  on  Mt.  Helicon,  and  the  "seat 
of  JoTe"  is  the  altar  there,  dedicated  to  Jove. 


LTCIDAS  27 

And  as  he  passes  turn, 

And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade  and  rill : 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared  25 

Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  graj^-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night, 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright  30 

Toward  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  westering  wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute ; 

Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long,  35 

And  Old  Damaetas  lov^d  to  hear  our  song. 

2 

But,  0  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves, 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown,       40 
And  all  their  echoes  mourn. 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose,  45 

Or  taint-worm  to  the  weaning  herds  that  graze, 
Or  frost  to  flowers  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear, 


batfenintj  (29) — fattening. 

oatin  flute  (33)  — symbol  of  pastoral  music. 


28  LYCIDAS 

"When  first  the  white-thorn  blows : 

Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 


Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep  50 
Closed  0  'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  ? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream.  55 

Ay  me,  I  fondly  dream ! 

Had  ye  been  there  —  for  what  could  that  have  done  ? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore. 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 
Whom  universal  Nature  did  lament,  60 

When,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar, 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  w^as  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore? 

4 

Alas !  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely  slighted  shepherd 's  trade,  65 

And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 


Druids   (53) — Celtic  priests. 

Deva   (55)  — The  river  Dee;  King  sailed  from  Chester  on  the  Dee. 

When,  hy  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar.  (Gl) — Orpheus 
so  offended  the  women  of  Thrace  by  his  inconsolable  grief  for  Eury- 
dice  that  In  one  of  their  orgies  they  tore  him  to  pieces.  The  frag- 
ments were  collected  by  tho  Muses  and  buried  nt  the  foot  of  Olympus; 
but  the  head  having  been  thrown  into  the  Ilebrus  was  carried  away 
to  the  Island  of  Lesbos. 


LYCIDAS  29 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 

Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair? 

Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise  70 

(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 

To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days; 

But  the  fair  guerdon  When  we  hope  to  find, 

And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze. 

Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears,  75 

And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.    **But  not  the  praise", 

Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears: 

'  *  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 

Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies,  80 

But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes, 

And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove; 

As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 

Of  so  much  fame  in  Heaven  expect  thy  meed. ' ' 

5 

0  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honoured  flood,      85 
Smooth-sliding  ]\Iincius,  croAvned  with  vocal  reeds. 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood : 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds. 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea. 
That  came  in  Neptune 's  plea :  90 

He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon  winds, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle  swain? 
And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory. 

the  hUnd  Fury  (75) — here  means  Atropos,  one  of  the  Fates,  who 
clipped  the  thread  of  life. 


30  LTCIDAS 

They  knew  not  of  his  story :  95 

And  sage  Ilippotadcs  their  answer  brings: 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed, 
The  air  was  cahn,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark,  100 

Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  "wnth  curses  dark. 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

6 
Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge, 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge  105 

Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe. 
"Ah!  who  hath  reft"  (quoth  he)  "my  dearest  pledge?" 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go. 
The  Pilot  of  the  Galilean  Lake ; 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain  110 

(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain)  ; 
lie  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake : 
"How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young  swain, 
Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold!  115 

Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 
Blind  mouths!  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 


Two  masfiy  Tceys  he  bore  (110)  — "Afid  I  will  give  unto  thee  the 
keys  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  Matthew  16 :  19.  The  pictures  of  St. 
Peter  nlways  represent  him  with  two  keys. 

vvtrcfl  Tories  (112) — A  mitre  is  a  bishop's  head-dress. 

Blind  mouths  (119)  — "Mouths"  here  stands  for  "gluttons,"  making 
a   powerful    phrase. 


LYCIDAS  31 

A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learnt  anght  else  the  least        120 

That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs! 

What  recks  it  them  ?  What  need  they  ?  They  are  sped ; 

And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw ; 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed,  125 

But  swoln  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread ; 

Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 

Daily  devours  apace,  and  notliing  said; 

But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door  130 

Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more." 


Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past 
That  shrunk  thy  streams ;  return,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells,  and  flowrets  of  a  thousand  hues.  135 

Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  sparely  looks, 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes, 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed  showers,       140 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 


sped    (122) — provided   for. 

lean  and  flashy   (123)  —  Poor  and  insipid. 

scrannel    (124) — harsh,    screeching. 

rank  mist  (126)  —  false  doctrine. 

draw  (126)  — breathe. 

Sicilian  Muse   (133)  — The  muse  of  pastoral  poetry. 

sirart  star  (138) — The  Dog  Star. 

rathe    (142) — Early. 


32  LYCIDAS 

The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 

The  white  piuk,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet, 

The  glowing  violet,  145 

The  musk  rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine, 

With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears ; 

Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed. 

And  daffadillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears,  150 

To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 

For  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise ; 

Ay  me !  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 

Wash  far  away,  where  'er  thy  bones  are  hurled ;  155 

Whether  oeyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Where  thou  perhaps,  under  the  whelming  tide, 

Vist'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world; 

Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied. 

Sleep  'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old,  160 

Where  the  great  Vision  of  the  guarded  mount 

Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold: 

Look  homeward.  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth; 

And,  0  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

8 
Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep  no  more,      165 
For  Lycidas,  j^our  sorrow,  is  not  dead, 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor ; 


sad  embroidery  (118) — See  Section  6,  line  lOG. 

monstrous    world    (IHS) — World    of    monsters,    the    ocean. 

the  great  Vision  (161) — Apparitions  of  St.  Michael  had  been  seen, 
according  to  tradition,  on  St.  Michael's  Mount. 

ye  dolphins  (104) — Referring  to  the  familiar  classical  story  that 
a  dolphin  once  saved  the  life  of  the  Greek  musician  Arion. 


LYCIDAS  33 

So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 

And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 

And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore         170 

Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 

So  Lycidas  sank  low  but  mounted  hig*h, 

Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walked  the  waves, 

Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 

With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves,  175 

And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song, 

In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 

There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above, 

In  solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies, 

That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move,  180 

And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 

Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  w^eep  no  more ; 

Henceforth  thou  art  the  Grenius  of  the  shore, 

In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 

To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood.  185 

9 
Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and  rills, 
While  the  still  Morn  went  out  with  sandals  gray ; 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay: 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills,  190 

And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay ; 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue: 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods,  and  pastures  new. 

—  John  Milton. 


unexpressive   (176)  — Inexpressible. 

stops  of  various  quills  (188) — Vnrious  moods  and  meters. 

Doric  (189)  — The  pastorsl  or  Doric  style. 


34  LYCIDAS 

Commenting  on  the  words  "creep,"  and  "intrude,"  and  "climb," 
Ruskin  says :  "No  other  words  would  or  could  serve  the  turn,  and 
no  more  could  be  added.  For  they  exhaustively  comprehend  the 
three  classes,  correspondent  to  the  three  characters  of  men  who  dis- 
honestly seek  ecclesiastical  power.  First,  those  who  'creep'  into  the 
fold ;  who  do  not  care  for  ofTice  nor  name  but  for  secret  influence, 
and  do  all  things  occultly  and  cunningly,  consenting  to  any  servility 
of  oflice  or  conduct,  so  only  that  they  may  intimately  discern,  and 
unawares  direct,  the  minds  of  men.  Then  those  who  'intrude' 
(thrust  that  is)  themselves  into  the  fold,  who  by  natural  insolence 
of  heart,  and  stout  eloquence  of  tongue,  and  fearlessly  perseverant 
self-assertion,  obtain  hearing  and  authority  with  the  common  crowd. 
Lastly,  those  who  'climb,'  who  by  labor  and  learning,  both  stout 
and  sound,  but  selfishly  exerted  in  the  cause  of  their  own  ambi- 
tion, gain  high  dignities  and  authorities." 

Concerning  the  use  of  the  phrase  "blind  mouths"  he  says :  "Those 
two  monosyllables  express  the  precisely  accurate  contraries  of  like 
character  in  the  two  great  ofEces  of  the  Church,  those  of  bishop  and 
pastor.  A  bishop  means  a  person  who  sees.  A  pastor  means  one 
who  feeds.  The  most  unbishoply  character  a  man  can  have  is  there- 
fore to  be  blind.  The  most  unpastoral  is,  instead  of  feeding,  to 
want  to  be  fed — to  be  a  Mouth.  Take  the  two  reverses  together,  and 
you  have  'blind-mouths.'  " 

It  is  evident  of  course  that  to  understand  Lycidas  the  reader 
must  be  well  informed  in  classic  mytliology. 


Alexander's  Feast 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST  37 

ALEXANDER'S  FEAST 

or.  The  Power  of  Music; 
an  Ode  in  honour  of  St,  Cecilia's  Day. 

Joihn  Dryden's  best-known  poem,  and  one  of  the  great- 
est of  English  Odes,  is  Alexander's  Feast.  It  was  writ- 
ten in  a  single  night,  when  Dryden  had  reached  the  age 
of  sixty-six.  Lord  Bolingbroke  called  upon  him  one 
morning,  and  Drj^den  said  to  him :  "I  have  been  up  all 
night;  my  musical  friends  made  me  promise  to  write 
tliem  an  ode  for  their  feast  of  St.  Cecilia,  and  I  was  so 
struck  with  the  subject  which  occurred  to  me  that  I 
could  not  leave  it  till  I  had  completed  it;  here  it  is, 
finished  at  one  sitting."  His  "musical  friends"  were 
the  members  of  the  St.  Cecilia  Society  of  London  who 
annually,  on  the  22nd  of  November,  celebrated  St.  Ce- 
cilia's Day.  Songs  had  been  written  for  these  occasions 
by  Oldham,  Nahum  Tate  and  other  poets;  in  1687  Dry- 
den had  written  his  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day.  Pope 
wrote  a  song  for  the  society  in  1708 ;  but  much  the  finest 
of  all  is  Alexander's  Feast. 

■St,  Cecilia,  the  patron  saint  of  music,  especially  of 
church  music,  was  a  member  of  a  noble  Roman  family. 
She  was  commanded  to  sacrifice  to  idols,  refused  to  do 
so,  and  was  condemned  to  death,  A.  D.  230.  She  was 
buried  by  Pope  Urban  in  the  catacombs  of  Calixtus.  In 
820  Pope  Paschal  had  her  body  —  which  was  found 
"fresh  and  perfect  as  when  it  Avas  first  laid  in  the  tomb, 
and  clad  in  rich  garments  mixed  with  gold,  with  linen 


38  ALEXANDER'S  FEAST 

cloths  stained  with  blood  rolled  up  at  her  feet" — re- 
moved to  the  Church  of  St.  Cecilia,  which  had  originally 
been  her  house.  Beneath  the  high  altar  there  is  a  statue 
of  St.  Cecilia,  representing  her  body  as  found  in  the 
catacombs.  She  is  regarded  as  the  inventor  of  the  organ, 
and  in  the  Roman  Catholic  church  her  festival-day, 
November  22,  is  celebrated  with  splendid  music.  Raph- 
ael's painting  of  St.  Cecilia  seated  at  a  musical  instru- 
ment while  an  angel  hovers  near,  dropping  flowers,  is 
familiar  to  everybody;  as  Dryden  says,  ''she  drew  an 
angel  down." 

Dryden 's  poem  not  only  represents  the  power  of 
music  but  it  portrays  an  event,  fairly  well  established,  in 
the  life  of  Alexander  the  Great :  the  burning  of  the  splen- 
did city  of  Persepolis  at  the  request  of  the  celebrated 
Greek  wit  and  beauty,  Thais.  Plutarch  thus  tells  the 
story : 


"When  he  was  about  to  set  forth  from  this  place  [Persepolis] 
against  Darius,  he  joined  with  his  companions  in  a  merry-making 
and  drinking  bout.  .  .  .  The  most  celebrated  of  them  [the  women 
present]  was  Thais,  a  girl  of  Attica  ...  As  the  license  of  the 
drinking  bout  progressed  she  was  carried  so  far,  either  by  way 
of  offering  Alexander  a  graceful  compliment  or  of  bantering  him, 
as  to  express  a  sentiment  which,  while  not  unworthy  of  the  spirit 
of  her  fatherland,  was  surely  somewhat  lofty  for  her  own  condition. 
For  she  said  ...  it  would  give  her  still  greater  pleasure,  if  to 
crown  the  celebration  she  might  burn  the  house  of  the  Xerxes  who 
once  reduced  Athens  to  ashes,  and  might  with  her  own  hands  set  the 
fire  under  the  eyes  of  the  King ;  so  the  saying  might  go  forth 
among  men  that  the  little  woman  with  Alexander  took  sorer  ven- 
geance on  the  Persians  in  behalf  of  Greece  than  all  the  great  gen- 
erals who  fought  by  sea  or  land.  Iler  words  weTc  received  with 
such  tumults  of  applause,  and  .so  earnestly  seconded  by  the  persua- 
sions and  zeal  of  the  King's  associates,  that  he  was  drawn  into  it 
himself;  and  leaping  up  from  his  seat  with  a  chaplet  of  flowers  on 
his  head  and  a  lighted  torch  in  his  hand  led  the  way,  while  the 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST  39 

rest  followed  him  in  a  drunken  rout,  with  bacchanalian  cries,  about 
the  corridors  of  the  palace." 

The  old  historian  Quintus  Curtius  gives  the  following 
account  of  the  incident: 

"Thais,  being  heated  with  wine,  told  him  [Alexander]  he  could 
not  do  anything  that  would  more  oblige  all  the  Greeks  than  if  he 
burnt  the  pahice  of  the  kings  of  Persia;  that  they  expected  this 
by  way  of  reprisal  for  those  towns  of  theirs  the  Barbarians  had 
destroyed.  Some  of  the  company  (who  were  also  loaded  with 
wine)  applauded  the  proposal:  and  the  king  not  only  heard  it  with 
patience,  but  eager  to  put  it  in  execution,  said,  'Why  do  we  not 
revenge  Greece?  Why  do  we  delay  setting  fire  to  the  town?'  They 
were  all  heated  with  wine,  and  in  that  drunken  condition  immedi- 
ately rose  to  burn  that  city  they  had  spared  when  armed.  The 
king  showed  them  the  example,  and  was  the  first  to  set  fire  to  the 
palace,  after  which  his  guests,  servants  and  concubines  did  the 
same.  .  .  .  This  was  the  end  of  the  noblest  city  of  the  east." 

Concerning  the  influence  on  Alexander  of  the  musi- 
cian Timotheus,  whom  Dryden  makes  the  moving  spirit 
of  the  scene,  Quintus  Curtius  says: 

"He  was  very  much  taken  with  Timotheus,  who  was  very  famous 
in  that  profession,  for  this  man,  accommodating  his  art  to  Alexan- 
der's humour,  did  once  so  ravish  him  by  Phrygian  airs  that  he 
seemed  all  in  a  transport,  and  actuated  as  it  were  by  some  inspira- 
tion, hastened  to  his  arms  as  if  the  enemy  had  been  just  at 
hand." 

The  scene  in  Dryden 's  poem  is  strikingly  drawn.  It 
is  a  typical  oriental  feast  or  festival;  the  conqueror  is 
seated  on  a  gorgeous  throne,  and  by  his  side  is  Thais, 
his  favorite;  about  him  are  his  heroes,  crowned  with 
roses  and  myrtles,  as  was  the  custom.  Timotheus,  the 
most  famous  musician  of  his  time,  is  conspicuous  among 
the  music-makers.  This  is  the  Timotheus  of  Whom  it  is 
said  that  he  charged  double  fees  to  all  pupils  who  had 
been  taught  music  by  other  teachers. 


40  ALEXANDER'S  FEAST 

The  great  musician  begins,  as  was  the  universal  custom 
on  sudh  occasions,  by  singing  a  song  in  praise  of  the 
person  in  whose  honor  the  feast  was  given.  "The  song 
began  from  Jove,"  —  that  is,  the  song  began  by  relating 
the  legend  that  Jove  was  the  father  of  Alexander,  having 
appeared  to  Olympias,  Alexander's  mother,  in  the  form 
of  a  serpent,  and  that  the  conquerer  was  therefore  him- 
self a  god.  Alexander  had  some  time  before  this  con- 
sulted the  oracle  of  Amnion  in  the  Libyan  Desert  and 
the  oracle  had  saluted  him  as  a  son  of  Zeus  or  Jove ; ' '  and 
he  returned  with  the  conviction  that  he  was  indeed  a 
god."  For  challenging  Alexander's  divinity  Callis- 
thenes,  a  nephew  of  Aristotle,  was  tortured  and  put  to 
death.  In  fact,  his  father  was  Philip  of  Macedon  and 
his  mother  Ol^mipias,  daughter  of  Neoptolemus,  king  of 
Epirus,  but  his  marvelous  military  feats  had  made  the 
superstitious  think  he  was  more  than  human.  And  so 
the  listening  crowd  shouts,  "A  present  deity!"  and  "the 
vaulted  roofs  rebound."  Alexander  assumes  the  attitude 
and  manners  of  a  god,  and  "seems  to  shake  the  spheres" 
with  his  might  and  power.  It  is  a  gorgeous,  splendid 
and  barbaric  oriental  picture  which  Dryden  presents. 

In  stanza  three,  Timotheus  takes  another  theme  for  his 
song,  the  praise  of  Bacchus,  the  god  of  wine.  ]\Iean- 
while  the  effects  of  the  wine  itself  as  well  as  those  of  the 
music  are  very  evident. 

These  effects  on  Alexander  are  mentioned  in  stanza 
four.  In  his  imagination  he  fights  his  battles  over  again, 
routing  his  foes  and  slaying  the  slain.  He  grows  so  vain 
that  he  defies  heaven  and  eartli. 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST  41 

Timotheus,  seeing  this,  changes  his  tune  and  cheeks 
the  Conqueror's  pride.  He  sings  a  song  of  pity  for 
Darius,  lung  of  Persia,  fallen  from  his  high  estate,  whom 
Alexander  seems  to  have  had  some  genuine  sympathy 
for. 

Next  to  pity  is  love,  and  so  Alexander  is  in  the  proper 
frame  of  mind  for  Timotheus  to  sing  to  him  of  love, 
which  he  does  in  stanza  five,  in  soft  sweet  Lydian  meas- 
ures. War,  honor,  fighting,  these  things  are  not  to  be 
compared  with  love.  The  crowds  seem  to  like  this  song 
best  of  all,  and  so  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the 
cause.  Meanwhile  the  conqueror  of  the  world  was  con- 
quered by  wine  and  music  and  love. 

The  climax  is  presented  in  stanza  six.  The  master 
musician  undertakes  to  rouse  the  king  from  his  drunken 
stupor  with  a  song  of  revenge.  He  makes  the  ghosts  of 
the  slain  Grecian  soldiers  appear  in  the  festal-hall  in 
the  form  of  Furies  with  snakes  hissing  in  their  hair,  and 
calling  for  fiery  vengeance  on  the  Persian  houses.  The 
princes  applaud,  Thais  leads  the  way,  the  king  seizes  a 
torch,  and  the  palaces  of  Persepolis  are  burned  to  the 
ground.  "In  a  fit  of  drunkenness,  at  the  instigation  of 
Thais,  he  set  fire  to  Persepolis,  the  wonder  of  the  world, 
and  reduced  it  to  a  heap  of  ashes. '  * 

Thus,  long  ago,  Timotheus  with  flute  and  lyre  and 
song  was  able  to  raise  a  mortal  to  the  skies  in  his  own 
imagination,  but  when  St.  Cecilia  invented  the  organ 
slie  was  able  to  draw  even  the  angels  about  !her. 


42  ALEXANDER'S  FEAST 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST 


'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  soh: 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne ;  5 

His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  wdth  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound, 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned;) 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side. 
Sate  like  a  blooming  eastern  bride  10 

In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair.  15 


Timotheus,  placed  on  high 

Amid  the  tuneful  quire, 

"With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre : 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky. 


for  Persia  icon  (line  1) — Persia  was  won  by  Alexander  In  the 
great  battle  of  Arbela,  October,  331  B.  C,  but  several  other  battles 
were  fought  afterward.  Darius  bad  between  half  a  million  and  a 
million  men  ;  Alexander  bad  fifty  thousand.  Darius  lost  at  least  three 
hundred  thousand. 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST  43 

The  heavenly  joys  inspire.  20 

The  song  began  from  Jove 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love,) 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god: 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode  25 

When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed, 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast ; 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the 

world. 
The  'listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound,  30 

"A  present  deity!"  they  shout  around: 
"A  present  deity!"  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound: 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god,  35 

Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

3 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  -then  the  sweet  musician  sung, 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young; 

The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes ;  40 

Sound  the  trumpets ;  beat  the  drums ; 

Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 

He  shows  his  honest  face ; 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath ;  he  comes,  he  comes ; 


belied  the  god  (2-1)  — counterfeited  Jove. 

Olinnpia   (26)  — Alexander's  mother's  name  was  Olympias. 

assumes  the  God  (35)  — Assumes  the  manner  of  a  god. 


44  ALEXANDER'S  FEAST 

Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young,  45 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldiers  pleasure: 
Rich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure,  50 

Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

4 

Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain ; 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again, 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the 
slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise,  55 

IKs  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes ; 
And,  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied. 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 

He  chose  a  mournful  muse 

Soft  pity  to  infuse :  60 

He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate 


fought  his  battles  o'er  again  (53)  —  His  chief  battles  -were  Arbola, 
331  B.  C. ;  IsKus,  333 ;  Franicus,  334 ;  all  against  Darius  the  Tcr- 
filan  ;  and   the  sack  of  Thebes  and  the  siege  of  Troy. 

The  master  (55) — Timotheus.  The  words  "his"  and  "he"  in  the 
next  three  lines  refer  to  Alexander,  except  In  the  phrase  —  "changed 
his  hand,"  where  it  refers  to  the  musician,  who  changed  his  tune. 

Darius  (CI)  — Darius  III,  King  of  Persia,  a  monarch  of  mild  and 
amiable  character.  Fie  was  several  times  defeated  by  Alexander.  He 
was  murdered  by  the  satrap  of  Bactria  and  his  body  was  sent  to 
Persepolis  by  Alexander  to  be  buried  with  the  other  monarchs  of 
Persia. 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST  45 

And  weltering  in  his  blood;  65 

Deserted  at  his  utmost  need 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed, 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies 
"With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate  70 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below ; 
And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 


The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see  75 

That  love  was  in  the  next  degree ; 
'Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 

Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures, 

Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures.  80 

"War,"  he  sung,  "is  toil  and  trouble*, 
Honour  but  an  empty  bubble, 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  stall  destroying: 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning,  85 

Think,  oh  think  it  worth  enjoying : 

Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee. 

Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause ; 


The  mighty  master  (75)  — Timotheus. 

Lydian  ttieasures  (79) — "The  designation  of  one  of  the  modes  in 
ancient  Greek  music,  characterized  as  soft  and  effeminate"  —  The  Ox- 
ford Dictionary.  Stanza  5,  in  which  this  phrase  occurs,  is  soft,  liquid, 
"Lydian."     Notice  the  feminine  or  double  rhymes. 


46  ALEXANDER'S  FEAST 

So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause.         90 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again ;  95 

At  length  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

6 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again : 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder  100 

And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark !  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head : 
As  awaked  from  the  dead 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around.  105 

"Revenge,  revenge,"  Timotheus  cries, 

"See  the  Furies  arise: 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear. 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair. 

And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes!        110 
Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand ! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts  that  in  battle  were  slain 
And  unburied  remain 


Tiis  pain  (91)  — bis  passion  of  love. 

8CC.  the  Furies  arinc,  (107)  — Desoribod  in  mytliolosy  as  liaving  tliolr 
bodies  covered  witli  black,  serpents  twined  in  their  hair,  and  blood 
dripping  from  their  eyes. 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST  47 

Inglorious  on  the  plain:  115 

Give  the  vengeance  due 

To  the  valiant  crew, 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. ' '  120 

The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy ; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy ; 

Thais  led  the  way 

To  lig'ht  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy.  125 

7 
Thus  long  ago. 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
Wliile  organs  j^et  were  mute 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 

And  sounding  lyre,  130 

Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sweet  enthusiast  from  her  sacred  store 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds,  135 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
"With  nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 
Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 


Uke  another  Helen  fired  another  Troy.  (125) — Helen,  wife  of 
Menelans,  King  of  Sparta,  eloped  with  Paris,  son  of  Priam,  King  of 
Troy.  Menelaus  to  avenge  his  wrong,  induced  the  allied  armies  of 
Greece  to  attack  Troy,  and  after  a  siege  of  ten  years  the  city  was 
taken  and  burnt  to  the  ground. 

the  vocal  Jramc  (133)  —  the  organ. 


48  ALEXANDER'S  FEAST 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies;  140 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 

—  John  Dryden. 


He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  shies  (140) — by  the  power  of  music 
he  raised  big  hearers  from  earth  to  heaven,  a  familiar  figure  of  speech. 

She  drew  an  angel  doicn  (141)  — refers  to  the  legend  that  an  angel 
left  the  cbolr8  above  to  listen  to  the  more  entrancing  music  of  St. 
Cecilia. 

Professor  Gayley  (English  Poetry,  Its  Principles  and  Progress) 
draws  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  rhyme-scheme  changes  with 
each  new  thought  thus  (stanza  1)  a,  a,  b,  b,  a,  Alexander  and  his 
feast;  (stanza  2)  c,  c,  c,  the  peers;  (stanza  3)  d,  d,  d,  Thais; 
(stanza  4)  e,  f,  f,  Alexander  and  Thais.  Similar  changes  occur 
in  subsequent  stanzas.  "While  reading  the  poem,  the  student 
should  note,  for  each  stanza,  three  things:  (1)  the  kind  of  music 
Timotheus  is  playing;  (2)  the  effect  of  the  music  on  Alexander; 
and  (3)  the  way  in  which  the  poet,  by  word-sounds  and  metrical 
effects,  pictures  objectively  the  sound  of  the  music,  and  subjectively 
and  more  subtly  the  resulting  mood  of  the  great  conqueror." 
(Gayley.)  Observe  the  frequent  metrical  changes  —  iambic, 
trochaic,  anapestic  —  the  varying  length  of  line,  as  well  as  the 
rhyme-schemes  and  the  onomatapoetic  effects,  used  with  such  mar- 
velous skill  by  Dryden  in  this  ode.  It  offers  excellent  opportunity 
for  the  study  of  poetic  technique. 

See  Browning's  Saul  for  the  power  of  music  in  a  noble  cause. 


The  Bard 


49 


THE  BARD  51 


THE  BARD 

"These  two  odes  The  Progress  of  Poesy  and  The  Bard  espe- 
cially tbe  latter,  are  the  most  imaginative  poetry  Gray  ever  pro- 
duced, and  were  distinctly  in  advance  of  the  age.  They  were  above 
the  popular  conception  of  poetry,  and  their  obscurity  was  increased 
by  their  allusiveness.  .  .  .  Their  obscurity  was  ridiculed,  and 
they  were  freely  parodied." —  William  Lyon  Phelps. 

The  Bard  is  still  above  the  popular  conception  of 
poetry,  and  its  obscurity  is  still  a  stumbling-block.  That 
it  is  a  great  poem,  and  highly  imaginative,  there  can  be 
no  doubt ;  and  a  careful  interpretation  will  remove  all 
or  most  of  its  obscurities.  The  poem  is  based  on  a  tra- 
dition that  Edward  the  First  of  England  (1272-1307), 
when  he  conquered  Wales,  ordered  all  the  bards  to  be 
put  to  death,  to  prevent  their  stirring  up  the  patriotism 
of  the  Welsh  people  with  their  songs  and  minstrelsy. 
Green,  in  his  History  of  the  English  People,  says  that  the 
massacre  of  the  bards  is  a  mere  fable,  but  he  gives  an 
interesting  account  of  the  influence  of  these  ancient 
Welsh  poets  in  arousing  the  national  feeling.  In  Book 
III,  Chapter  4,  he  says : 

"At  the  hour  of  its  lowest  degradation  the  silence  of  Wales  was 
suddenly  broken  by  a  crowd  of  singers.  The  song  of  the  twelfth 
century  burst  forth,  not  from  one  bard  or  another,  but  from  the 
nation  at  large.  .  .  .  The  spirit  of  the  earlier  bards,  their  joy  in 
battle,  their  love  of  freedom,  broke  out  anew  in  ode  after  ode,  in 
songs  extravagant,  monotonous,  often  prosaic,  but  fused  into 
poetry  by  the  intense  fire  of  patriotism  which  glowed  within  them. 
Every  fight,  every  hero,  had  its  verse.  The  names  of  the  older 
singers,  of  Taliesin,  Aneurin  and  Llywarch  Hen,  were  revived  in 
bold  forgeries  to  animate  the  national  resistance  and  to  prophesy 
victory.  .  .  .  Once  in  the  pass  Consilt  a  cry  arose  that  the  king 
was  slain,  Henry  of  Essex  flung  down  the  royal  standard,  and  the 
king's  desperate  efforts  could   hardly   save  his  army  from   utter 


52  THE  BARD 

rout.  The  bitter  satire  of  the  Welsh  singers  bade  hira  knight  his 
hor«e,  since  its  speed  had  alone  saved  him  from  capture.  .  .  .  The 
hopes  of  Wales  rose  higher  and  higher  with  each  triumph  of  the 
lord  of  Snowdon  [Llewellyn].  His  court  was  crowded  with  bardic 
singers.  Poet  after  poet  sang  of  'the  Devastator  of  England.'  Lesser 
bards  strung  together  Llewellyn's  victories  in  rough  jingle  of  rhyme, 
and  hounded  him  on  to  the  slaughter.  A  fierce  thirst  for  blood 
runs  through  the  abrupt,  passionate  verses  of  the  court  singers. 
The  supposed  verses  of  Taliesin  expressed  the  undying  hope  of  a 
restoration  of  the  Cymry  [Welsh]." 

In  Carte 's  History  of  England,  published  in  1750,  Vol- 
ume II  (in  the  Bodleian  Library,  Oxford)  occurs  the 
following : 

"The  only  set  of  men  among  the  Welsh,  that  had  reason  to  com- 
plain of  Edward's  severity,  were  the  bards  who  used  to  put  those 
of  the  ancient  Britons  in  mind  of  the  valiant  deeds  of  their  ances- 
tors :  he  ordered  them  all  to  be  hanged,  as  inciters  of  the  people  to 
sedition." 

Following  is  the  thread  of  the  story  in  the  poem : 
As  the  army  of  Edward  march  through  a  deep  valley 
in  Wales  they  are  stopped  by  the  appearance  of  a  ven- 
erable bard  who  stands  on  a  high  cliff  and  pronounces  a 
curse  upon  the  king  and  his  army ;  the  ghosts  of  a  band 
of  bards  slain  at  Edward's  command  appear  on  a  more 
remote  mountain  and  lake  up  the  curse,  combining  with 
it  a  prophecy  of  misfortune  to  Edward's  descendants; 
the  ghostly  bards  vanish,  and  the  first  bard  takes  up  the 
theme  once  more,  foretells  the  coming  of  true  British 
sovereigns  and  still  greater  poets  to  celebrate  virtue  and 
valor,  and  to  condemn  vice  and  tyranny ;  his  song  being 
ended,  the  bard  leaps  headlong  from  the  mountain  into 
the  river  ihat  rolls  at  its  feet. 

The  poem  begins  with  the  bard's  curse  upon  the  king, 
followed  by  a  description  of  the  scene  and  its  influence 


THE  BARD  53 

upon  the  king  and  his  army.  At  line  33  the  bard  again 
begins  speaking;  he  laments  the  death  of  his  fellow- 
singers,  Iloel,  Llewellyn,  Cadwallo,  Urien,  Modred,  dear 
lost  companions  of  his  tuneful  art,  but  says  that  they 
do  not  sleep,  for  at  that  moment  their  ghosts  appear  on 
another  cliff.  At  line  49  this  * '  grisly  band ' '  begin  speak- 
ing and  continue  for  fifty  lines  or  through  lines  49  to 
100  inclusive.  In  these  fifty  lines  the  ghostly  band 
"weave  tlie  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race,"  that  is, 
they  predict  the  disasters  that  are  to  befall  him  and  his 
descendants.  They  tell  how  Edward  the  Second  is  to 
be  butchered  in  Berkeley  Castle  {liiies  53-56)  ;  how 
Isabel  of  France,  Edward  the  Second 's  adulterous  Queen 
"the  she- wolf e  of  France,"  is  to  be  a  curse  to  him  and 
to  the  country  (lines  57-58)  ;  how  her  son  Edward  the 
Third  is  to  scourge  her  own  country,  France  {lines  59- 
62)  ;  how  that  mighty  victor  Edward  the  Third,  is  to  die 
abandoned  by  his  children  and  courtiers,  his  son  "the 
sable  warrior,"  the  Black  Prince,  being  dead  {lines 
63-70)  ;  how  'his  successor,  Kichard  the  Second,  "the  ris- 
ing morn,"  is  to  begin  his  reign  in  magnificence  {lines 
71-76),  but  is  to  close  his  life  by  being  starved  to  death 
{lines  76-82)  ;  how  the  ruinous  'civil  wars  of  York  and 
Lancaster  —  the  Wars  of  the  Roses  —  are  to  bring  havoc 
in  their  course,  with  many  secret  murders  in  the  Tower 
of  London,  including  that  of  Henry  the  Sixth,  "the  meek 
usurper"  of  line  90,  in  spite  of  his  "Father's  (Henry 
the  Fifth)  fame,"  and  his  Queen's  heroic  struggle  to 
save  him  {lines  83-94)  :  and  how  Eleanor,  the  Queen  of 
Edward  the  First,  is  to  lose  her  life,  "the  half  of  Ed- 
ward's heart,"  by  sucking  the  poison  from  a  dagger- 


54  THE  BARD 

wound  in  her  husband's  side,  thus  saving  his  life  {lines 
97-99). 

Here  the  band  of  ghostly  bards  disappear,  and  the 
bard  on  the  nearer  cliff,  after  imploring  them  not  to  leave 
him  thus  alone,  takes  up  the  prophecy  and  sees  on  Mount 
Snowdon's  height  as  it  were  the  scroll  of  the  future  un- 
rolled in  visions  of  glory.  He  no  longer  bewails  the 
fact  that  King  Arthur  has  not  returned  from  fairy-land 
as  predicted  and  commonly  believed,  for  he  sees  in  the 
House  of  Tudor  a  line  of  true  British  kings,  they  being 
of  Welsh  blood  (lines  100-110).  Queen  Elizabeth,  who 
was  descended  from  a  "Welsh  chief  and  therefore  of  the 
true  British  line,  is  the  central  figure  of  the  vision  in 
lines  111-124.  In  lines  125-134  the  bard  sees  future  great 
poets  of  England — Shakespeare  moves  "in  buskined 
measure,"  Milton's  voice  is  heard  from  ''blooming 
Eden,"  and  the  warblings  of  the  succession  of  poets  after 
Milton's  time  "in  long  futurity"  strike  his  prophetic 
ear. 

Lines  135-142  are  addressed  to  King  Edward  —  and 
then  the  bard  leaps  from  the  rock  and  disappears  in 
the  roaring  tide. 

The  Bard  is  a  "regular",  or  Pindaric,  ode  in  imita- 
tion of  the  famous  odes  of  Pindar.  A  Pindaric  ode 
consists  of  a  strophe,  an  antistrophe,  and  an  epode  —  or 
turn,  counter-turn,  and  stand  —  the  first  of  thorn  sup- 
posed to  be  sung  by  the  chorus  as  they  moved  up  one 
side  of  the  orchestra,  the  second  as  they  moved  down, 
and  the  third  as  they  stood.  Sometimes  the  epode  is 
placed  between  the  strophe  and  the  antistrophe.  The 
rhyme-scheme  of  the  strophe  is  the  same  as  that  of  the 


THE  BARD  65 

antistroplie,  but  the  epode  has  a  different  rhyme-scheme. 
The  strophe  and  the  antistrophe  are  iambic;  the  epode, 
trochaic.  The  lines  vary  in  number  of  feet  but  the 
strophe  and  antistrophe  observe  one  metrical  scheme 
and  the  epode  another.  Each  stanza  may  contain  from 
seven  or  eiglit  verses  (lines)  to  as  many  as  thirty  or 
thirty-five,  and  thus  the  rhyme-scheme  is  sometimes  very 
complex. 

THE  BARD 

A   PINDARIC   ODE 
1 

Strophe 

*'Euin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King! 
Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait, 
Though  f  ann  'd  by  Conquest 's  crimson  wing 
They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 
Helm,  nor  hauberk's  tivisted  mail,  5 

Nor  e  'en  thy  virtues.  Tyrant,  shall  avail 
To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears, 
From  Cambria's  curse,  from  Cambria's  tears!" 

Such  were  the  sounds,  that  o  'er  the  crested  pride 
Of  the  first  Edward  scatter 'd  wild  dismay,  10 

As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side 
He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long  array. 
Stout  Gloster  stood  aghast  in  speechless  trance ; 
"To  arms!"  cried  Mortimer,  and  couch 'd  his  quivering 
lance. 


Camhria   (line  8)  — Wales. 


56  THE  BARD 

Antistrophe 

On  a  rock  whose  haughty  brow  15 

Frowns  o  'er  old  Conway 's  foaming  flood, 
Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe, 
With  haggard  eyes  the  Poet  stood 
(Loose  his  beard,  and  hoary  hair 

Streamed,  like  a  meteor,  to  the  troubled  air)  20 

And  with  a  Master 's  hand,  and  Prophet 's  fire, 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre : 

"Hark,  how  each  giant-oak,  and  desert  cave, 
Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath! 
0  'er  thee,  0  King !  their  hundred  arms  they  wave,      25 
Revenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  murmurs  breathe ; 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 
To  high-born  Hoel  's  harp,  or  soft  Llewellyn 's  lay. 

Epode 

"Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue, 
That  hush'd  the  stormy  main;  30 

Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed; 
Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 
Modred,  whose  magic  song 

Made  huge  Plinlimmon  bow  his  cloud-topped  head. 
On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie,  35 

Smear 'd  with  gore,  and  ghastly  pale: 
Far,  far  aloof  the  affrighted  ravens  sail ; 
The  famish 'd  eas'le  screams,  and  passes  by. 

Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 

loone   Ms   ieard,   etc.    (19) — This    description    is   like   that   of   an 
old   Hebrew   prophet. 

Plinlimmon   (34)  — the  name  of  a  Wolsli  mountain. 


THE  BARD  57 

Dear,  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes,  40 

Dear,  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart, 
Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country's  cries  — 

No  more  I  weep.    They  do  not  sleep. 
On  yonder  cliffs,  a  grisly  band, 

I  see  them  sit,  they  linger  yet,  45 

Avengers  of  their  native  land: 
"With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join, 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy  line :  — 

2 

Strophe 

"  'Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof, 
The  winding  sheet  of  Edward's  race.  50 

Give  ample  room,  and  verge  enough 
The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 
]\Iark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night. 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 
The  shrieks  of  death,  through  Berkeley's  roofs  55 

that  ring. 
Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  King ! 
She- Wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs. 
That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  Mate, 
From  thee  be  born,  who  o'er  thy  country  hangs 
The  scourge  of  heaven.  What  terrors  round  him  wait !  60 
Amazement  in  his  van,  with  Flight  combin  'd, 
And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  behind. 


grisly   (44)  —  horrible. 

verge  (51)  — margin,  space. 

Eevern    (54) — A   river   in    the   eastern   part   of   Wales. 

amazement   (61)  — confusion. 


68  THE  BARD 

Antistrophe 

"  'Mighty  victor,  mighty  lord! 
Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies! 

No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford  65 

A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 
Is  the  sable  warrior  fled  f 
Thy  son  is  gone.    He  rests  among  the  dead. 
The  swarm,  that  in  thy  noontide  beam  were  bom  ? 
Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn.  70 

Fair  laughs  the  morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 
While  proudly  riding  o  'er  the  azure  realm 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes ; 
Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm; 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind's  sway,  75 

That,  hushed  in  grim  repose,  expects  his  evening  prey. 

Epode 

"  'Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl. 
The  rich  repast  prepare. 
Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast : 
Close  by  the  regal  chair  80 

Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 
A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  guest. 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray. 
Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse? 
Long  years  of  havoc  urge  their  destined  course,  85 

And  through  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their  way. 
Ye  towers  of  Julius,  London's  lasting  shame. 


Towers  of  Julius   (87)  —  Tho   tower  of  London,   the  oldest  part  of 
which    Julius   Caesar   was   thought   to   have   built. 


THE  BARD  59 

"With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murder  fed, 
Revere  his  consort's  faith,  his  father's  fame, 

And  spare  the  meek  usurper's  holy  head.  90 

Above,  beloAv,  the  rose  of  snow, 

Twin  'd  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread : 
The  bristled  Boar  in  infant  gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 
Now,  brothers,  bending  o'er  the  accursed  loom,  95 

Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his  doom. 

3 

Strophe 

"  'Edward,  lo!  to  sudden  fate 
(Weave  we  the  woof.    The  thread  is  sptm). 
Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 
(The  web  is  wove.    The  work  is  done.)  *  100 

Stay,  oh  stay !  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  me  unbless'd,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn! 
In  yon  bright  track,  that  fires  the  western  skies, 
They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 

But  oh !  what  solemn  scenes  on  Sno wdon  's  height  105 
Descending  slow  their  glittering  skirts  unroll? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight, 
Ye  unborn  Ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul ! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail. 
All-hail,  ye  genuine  Kings,  Britannia's  Issue,  hail!    110 

the  bristled  hoar  (93)  — Richard  the  Third,  because  a  silver  boar 
was    his    badge. 

Half  of  thy  heart,  etc.  (99)  —  See  Tennyson's  Dream  of  Fair 
Women. 

Snoivdon    (105) — The   chief   mountaia  in  Wales. 


60  THE  BARD 

Antistrophe 

"Girt  "with  many  a  baron  bold 
Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear ; 
And  gorgeous  Dames,  and  Statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty,  appear. 

In  the  midst  a  Forai  divine !  115 

Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-Line ; 
Her  lion-port,  her  awe -commanding  face, 
Attemper 'd  sweet  to  virgin-grace. 
"What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air, 
What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her  play!      120 
Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear; 
They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  Rapture  calls,  and  soaring,  as  she  sings, 
Waves  in  the  eye  of  Heaven  her  many-colonr'd  wings. 


Ejyode 

"The  verse  adorn  again  125 

Fierce  War,  and  faithful  Love, 
And  Truth  severe,  by  fairy  Fiction  drest. 

In  buskin 'd  measures  move 

Pale  Grief,  and  pleasing  Pain, 
With  Horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast.  130 

A  voice,  as  of  the  cherub-choir. 
Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear; 
And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear, 

That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 

her   lion-port    (117) — Quoon    Elizabeth's    pommanaing    mien. 
Taliessin   (121)— Chief  of   the   Welsh  bards. 


THE  BARD  61 

Fond  impious  man,  think 'st  thou  yon  sanguine  cloud  135 

Rais'd  by  thy  breath,  has  quench 'd  the  orb  of  day? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood, 

And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 
Enough  for  me ;  with  joy  I  see 

The  different  doom  our  fates  assign.  140 

Be  thine  despair,  and  sceptred  care ; 

To  triumph,  and  to  die,  are  mine." 
He  spake,  and  headlong  from  the  mountain's  height 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plung'd  to  endless  night, 

—  Thomas  Gray. 


The  infant  son  of  Edward  I.  was  giren  the  title  of  "Prince  of 
Wales,"  which  the  eldest  son  of  the  remaining  sovereign  has  borne 
since  that  time.  "According  to  the  old  story,"  says  Cheney  (A 
Short  History  of  England,  page  220)  "Edward  promised  to  give  to  the 
Welsh  people  as  a  prince  a  native  of  Wales  and  one  who  could  not 
speak  a  word  of  English.  He  then  presented  to  them  his  infant 
son  who  had  just  been  born  at  the  Welsh  castle  of  Carnarvon." 


Elegy  Written  in  a  Country 
Church-yard 


63 


ELEGY  65 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY 
CHURCH-YARD 

Gray's  Elegy  is  the  most  popular  and  the  most  widely 
read  poem  in  the  English  language ;  and  the  old  church- 
yard at  Stoke  Poges  in  Buckinghamshire  is  as  much 
visited  by  tourists  as  any  spot  in  England,  except  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon. 

The  old  cemetery  is  still  a  "country  church-yard." 
The  nearest  post-office  is  two  miles  away,  and  the  rural 
scenes  described  by  Gray  at  the  middle  of  the  18th 
century  still  meet  the  eye.  Still  the  lowing  herd  wind 
slowly  o'er  the  lea;  still  the  plowman  homeward  plods 
his  weary  way;  still  the  owl  complains  from  his  ivy- 
mantled  tower;  beneath  the  same  yew-trees'  shade  the 
forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep.  At  Windsor  Castle, 
three  miles  away,  the  boast  of  heraldry  and  the  pomp 
of  power  still  prevail,  for  Windsor  is  a  favourite  resi- 
dence of  the  King;  and  every  evening  at  eight  o'clock 
the  curfew  bell  at  Windsor  still  tolls  the  knell  of  parting 
day.  The  only  change  noticeable  from  Gray's  descrip- 
tion is  that  the  sheep  have  lost  their  bells — drowsy 
tinklings  no  longer  lull  the  distant  folds.  Hard  by  the 
same  church-yard  still  stands  the  wood  where  the  poet 
was  wont  to  walk  in  melancholy  mood,  and  a  short  dis- 
tance away  at  Burnham  Beeches  is  pointed  out  the 
nodding  beech  that  still  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots 
so  high,  where  at  noontide  he  would  stretch  his  listless 
length.  It  is  a  peaceful,  dreamy  landscape  in  one  of  the 
most   beautiful   parts   of   England.     The  visitor   may 


66  ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A 

learn,  if  he  is  sufficiently  interested  to  spend  a  day  and 
make  inquiry,  that  the  curfew  referred  to  was  doubtless 
the  one  at  AVindsor,  that  the  ivy-mantled  tower  is  the 
tower  of  St.  Giles  Church  in  the  midst  of  the  cemetery 
and  still  covered  with  ivy ;  and  he  may  see  the  English 
country  life  much  as  it  was  at  the  time  the  poem  was 
written.  In  this  old  St.  Giles  church  lie  buried  many 
persons  of  more  or  less  renown,  and  tablets  are  there 
to  their  memory.  It  was  the  custom  there,  as  elsewhere, 
to  inter  persons  of  distinction  within  the  church  and 
the  humble  folk  in  the  church-yard.  Gray  himself  be- 
longed to  the  latter  class,  and  he  lies  buried  in  the  same 
grave  with  his  mother  and  his  aunt  immediately  out- 
side of  the  church.  All  about  are  ancient  tombstones, 
many  of  them  so  weather-worn  and  moss-covered  that 
their  inscriptions  can  no  longer  be  made  out. 

The  Elegy  is  composed  of  three  parts.  The  first  three 
stanzas  describe  the  quiet  landscape,  at  nightfall:  the 
cattle  are  slowly  crossing  the  field,  the  plowman  is  com- 
ing home  from  his  work  hungry  and  tired,  the  tinkling 
sound  of  the  sheep-bells  is  heard  in  the  distance,  the 
evening  insects  are  flying  around,  the  moon  is  up,  and  in 
the  church  tower  an  owl  is  heard  as  the  sounds  of  the 
curfew  bell  float  over  from  "Windsor  or  from  Eton. 

Stanzas  four  to  twenty-three  inclusive  constitute  the 
main  body  of  the  elegy.  Yonder  under  the  ancient  elms 
and  yew-trees  sleep  the  men  who  used  to  fell  the  trees, 
plow  the  fields  and  reap  the  harvests.  Their  joys  were 
homely  and  their  destiny  obscure,  but  the  high  and  pow- 
erful need  not  mock  —  they  must  all  at  last  come  to  the 
same  low  estate  in  the  grave.    No  monument,  however 


COUNTRY    CHURCH-YARD  67 

high,  no  tribute  of  honor,  no  voice  of  flattery  can  bring 
them  back.  And  perhaps  some  of  these  lowly  fore- 
fathers might  have  been  famous  and  powerful  too  if  they 
had  only  had  the  opportunity.  Some  of  them  may  have 
had  the  latent  possibilities  of  a  Hampden  or  a  Milton  or 
a  Cromwell,  but  their  lot  forbade.  And  so  here  are  their 
names  on  the  humble  gravestones,  with  texts  of  scripture 
and  tributes  from  those  who  loved  them.  Surely  these 
humble  men  are  entitled  to  these  memorials,  for  no  one 
likes  to  leave  this  life  without  some  loving  word. 

The  remainder  of  the  poem  is  about  the  poet  himself, 
his  daily  life  and  moods,  and  concludes  with  the  epitaph 
written  for  himself.  It  is  interesting  to  notice  how 
perfectly  Gray  describes  himself  in  the  last  eight  stan- 
zas. It  was  his  custom  during  that  part  of  every  year 
which  he  spent  at  Stoke  Poges  to  take  early  morning 
walks  to  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn,  and  through 
the  wood  near  where  his  monument  now  stands,  across 
the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree.  He  was  a  youth  to 
fortune  unknown,  but  his  fame  was  rising  about  his  ears 
during  his  own  life.  Science  and  knowledge  certainly 
smiled  on  his  humble  birth,  for  he  was  doubtless  the 
greatest  scholar  in  England  in  his  day ;  and  melancholy 
marked  him  for  her  own.  In  a  letter  to  his  friend  West 
at  Oxford  he  wi^ote:  "Low  spirits  are  my  true  and 
faithful  companions ;  they  get  up  with  me,  go  to  bed  with 
me,  make  journeys  and  returns  as  I  do  .  .  .  but  most 
commonly  we  sit  alone  together."  All  of  his  life  he 
was  melancholy  and  more  or  less  morbid.  His  bounty 
(generosity)  was  large,  and  his  soul  was  honest,  sincere, 
and  simple.    He  was  offered  the  office  of  poet-laureate, 


68  ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN   A 

and  refused.  He  said  he  would  "rather  be  a  sergeant- 
trumpeter  or  pin-maker  to  the  palace."  Previously  he 
had  declined  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  from  the 
Univei'sity  of  Aberdeen.  In  return  for  these  traits  of 
character  he  had  gained  his  only  wish  —  a  friend  (Ime 
124).  In  this  line  Gray  probably  refers  to  Horace  Wal- 
pole,  who  was  his  intimate  associate  at  Eton  and  Cam- 
bridge, with  whom  he  traveled  on  the  Continent,  who 
looked  after  the  publication  of  his  poems,  and  at  whose 
famous  "Strawberry  Hill"  residence  Gray  spent  a  part 
of  every  year  for  the  last  twenty-five  years  of  his  life. 
Other  friends  were  Richard  West,  son  of  a  Lord  Chan- 
cellor of  Ireland,  and  William  Mason,  who  became  Gray's 
biographer,  but  the  tribute  in  the  "epitaph",  as  previ- 
ously stated,  is  probably  to  Walpole  —  notwithstanding 
the  fact  that  at  one  time  they  had  had  a  famous  quarrel. 


ELEGY   WRITTEN  IN   A   COUNTRY   CHURCH-YARD 

(Tue  text  here  given  is  that  copied  by  Edmund  Gosse  from  one 
of  the  earliest  editions  and  is  authoritative.  It  is  slightly  different 
from  most  modern  editions.) 


The  Curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o  'er  the  lea, 

Curfew  —  French  couvre-feu  (line  1) — cover-fire.  A  custom  in- 
troduced after  tbe  Norman  Conquest  for  protection  against  fire,  as  most 
of  the  houses  were  then  wood.  Now  all  of  the  houses  in  England 
are  brick,  stone,  or  plaster.  The  ringing  of  thf  "curfew"  now  generally 
means  that  chi'dren  of  a  certain  age  must  get  indoors,  and  off  streets. 


COUNTRY   CHURCH-YARD  69 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

2 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight,        5 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds : 

3 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tow'r 

The  mopeing  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain  10 

Of  such  as,  wand 'ring  near  her  secret  bow'r. 

Molest  her  ancient  sclitary  reign. 

4 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mould 'ring  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid,  15 

The  rude  Forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

5 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 

The  swallow  twitt'ring  from  the  straw-built  shed. 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed.        20 

0  solemn  stillness  holds  (6) — A  solemn  stillness  pervades  the 
air. 

rude  (16) — uncultured. 

straw-built  shed  (18) — Many  sheds  and  even  miany  residences  In 
the  British  Isles  are  still  thatched  or  covered  with  straw. 

lowly  bed  (20)  — does  not  here  mean  the  grave. 


70  ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A 

6 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knee  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 


Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield,  25 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke: 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 
How  bow  'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

8 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure;  30 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  ■\^ath  a  disdainful  smile 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 


The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  pow'r, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Awaits  alike  th'  inevitable  hour.  35 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

10 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud,  impute  to  These  the  fault, 
If  Mem'ry  o'er  their  Tomb  no  Trophies  raise. 


COUNTKY    CHURCH- YARD  71 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  isle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise.  40 

11 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
Can  Honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flatt'ry  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death? 

12 
Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid  45 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 
Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd, 

Or  wak'd  to  extasy  the  living  lyre. 

13 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 

Rich  with,  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll;  50 

Chill  Penury  repress 'd  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

14 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 
The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear: 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen,  55 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 


fretted  vault  (39) — oraamented  with  fretwork,  or  small  bands 
crossed  and  interlacod.  It  has  been  pointed  out  that  the  service  at 
King's    College    chapel,    Cambridge,    Inspired    this   couplet. 

storied  urn   (41)  — a  memorial  urn,  with  inscriptions. 

animated  hunt   (41)  —a  life-like  bust. 

provoke  (43)  — call  forth. 

living  lyre  (48) — poetry. 


72  ELEGY   WRITTEN   IN   A 

15 

Some  village-Hampden  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  Tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood.        60 

16 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o  'er  a  smiling  land. 
And  read  their  hist'ry  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

17 

Their  lot  forbad:  nor  circumscrib'd  alone  65 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  oonfin'd; 

Forbad  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind. 


village-TIampden  (57) — John  Hampden,  a  famous  English  patriot, 
one  of  the  first  opponents  of  the  tax  of  ship-monoy. 

Uitle  Tyrant  (58) — In  comparison  with  Charles  I.  who  was  a 
great   tyrant. 

Some  Cromicell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood  (60) — This  line  is 
not  true  to  history,  but  in  Gray's  time  it  was  the  belief  that  Crom- 
well had  brought  about  the  death  of  Charles.  For  example,  Gold- 
smith says  in  his  very  popular  History  of  England  that  Cromwell 
"secretly  solicited  and  contrived  the  death  of  Charles  I."  We  linow 
now    that    this    is   wholly    untrue. 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates,  etc,  (61)  — aa  William  Pitt,  Lord 
Chatham,  was  then  doing. 

The  next  three  lines  (in  stanza  16)  aaay  refer  to  Walpole  (father 
of  Gray's  special  friend,  Horace  Walpole),  who  was  closing  his  long 
minis.try    (1721-1742)    when  Gray  began  the  Elegy. 

shut  the  gates  of  mercy  (68) — show  no  mercy.  —  Shaiespearc. 
(Henry  V,)  111,  3,  says:  —  "The  gates  of  mercy  shall  be  all  shut  up." 


COUNTRY    CHURCH-YARD  73 

18 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth,  to  hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame,  70 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse 's  flame. 

19 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn  'd  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool  sequester 'd  vale  of  life  75 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

20 

Yet  ev'n  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhimes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh.  80 

21 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 


struggling  pangs  of  conscious  (69) — Truth  Is  here  personified  and 
represented  as  struggling  for  birth.  Their  lot  rendered  it  unneces- 
sary for  thorn  to  conceal  their  opinions  with  regard  to  what  they 
knew  to  he  truth. 

To  quench,  etc.  (70)  —  They  had  not  learned  to  be  shameless  In 
wrong-doing. 

Or  heap  the  shrine,  etc.  (71) — referring  to  the  custom  in  the 
18th  century  of  using  fulsome  flattery  in  the  dedication  of  poetical 
or  other  literary  works  to  the  nobility. 


74  ELEGY   WRITTEN   IN   A 

22 

For  who  to  dumb  Forgetfuluess  a  prey,  85 

This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resign 'd, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  chearful  day, 
Nor  east  one  longing  lin'gring  look  behind? 

23 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires;  90 

E  'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E  'en  in  our  Ashes  live  their  wonted  Fires. 

24 

For  thee,  who  mindful  of  th'  unhonour'd  Dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led,  95 

Some  kindred  Spirit  shall  inquire  thy  Fate, — 

25 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  Swain  may  say, 
'Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  aM'ay 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn.  100 

stanzas  22  and  23  mean  that  no  one  leaves  this  life  with  entire 
willingness;  even  from  the  grave  the  voice  seems  to  call  back  to 
the   friends  and    scenes   of   life. 

pious   (90)  —  Here  the  meaning  is  dutiful. 

For  thee  (93)  — refers  to  the  poet  himself — as  for  thee. 

Stanza  24  Is  involved  but  its  meaning  Is,  if  some  kindred  spirit 
should  read  this  poem  and,  passing  that  way,  should  inquire  the  fate 
of  its  author,  perhaps  some  old  man  will  say,  etc. 


COUNTRY  CHURCH- YARD  76 

26 

'There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 


27 

*  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn,  105 

Mutt 'ring  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove, 

Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn. 
Or  craz'd  with  care,  or  cross 'd  in  hopeless  love. 


28 

*One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  custom 'd  hill. 

Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  fav'rite  tree;  110 

Another  came ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  not  at  the  wood  was  he : 


29 

'The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 
(Slow  thro'  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  born. 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  cans't  read)  the  lay,      115 
Grav  'd  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn. ' 


Jcr  thou  canst  read  (115) — It  is  an  old  uneducated  peasant  that 
is  speaking.  It  is  as  if  tie  said  :  'Tow  can  read  -tlie  epitaph,  al- 
though I  cannot." 


76  ELEGY 

The  Epitaph 

30 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 

A  Youth,  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown. 

Fair  Science  frown 'd  not  on  his  humble  birth, 

And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own.  120 

31 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heav  'n  did  a  recompence  as  largely  send : 

He  gave  to  Mis'ry  all  he  had,  a  tear. 
He  gain'd  from  Heav'n  ( 'twas  all  he  wish'd)  a  friend. 

32 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose,  125 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

—  Thomas  Gray. 


"The  Epitaph"  —  written  by  Gray  as  a  description  of  himself. 

St.  Giles  churcb,  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  churchyard,  -waa 
built  in  1330  on  the  site  of  a  church  built  in  1107.  It  is  well 
preserved  and  contains  many  interesting  memorials. 

Compare  with  this  Elegy  such  other  famous  English  elegies  as 
Milton's  Lycidas,  Shelley's  Adonais,  Tennyson's  In  Memoriam,  and 
Matthew  Arnold's  Thyrais. 


The   Deserted  Village 


77 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  79 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

The  Deserted  Village  is  a  didactic  and  descriptive 
poem;  but  unlike  most  didactic  poems  it  is  not  a  bore, 
and  unlike  most  descriptive  poems  it  is  not  unprofitable. 
Indeed,  its  descriptions  are  so  supremely  good  that  they 
were  long  ago  given  a  permanent  place  in  English  litera- 
ture ;  and  its  political  economy  is  coming,  at  last  after  a 
century  and  a  third,  to  be  the  watchword  of  great  na- 
tional movements  in  both  Goldsmith's  own  country 
and  the  United  States.  Goldsmith  held  that  the  perma- 
nent strength  of  a  nation  must  rest  upon  its  small  inde- 
pendent land-holders,  that  the  life  of  such  people  is  the 
happiest  and  freest,  and  that  the  accumulation  of  great 
landed  estates,  with  its  accompanying  luxury,  was  a  bad 
thing  for  the  country.  He  deplored  the  laws  and  cus- 
toms which  made  it  possible  for  powerful  lords  and 
squires  to  crush  out  the  small  land-holders,  convert  the 
land  into  parks,  hunting-grounds,  and  great  grazing 
tracts,  and  thus  make  it  necessary  for  the  yeomen  and 
peasants  to  flock  to  the  cities  or  emigrate  to  America. 
For  a  hundred  years  or  more  every  editor  of  Goldsmith 
spoke  slightingly  of  this  theory,  saying  one  after  an 
other,  "We  now  know  this  to  be  faulty  political  econ- 
omy." The  fact  is,  we  now  know  it  to  be  the  soundest 
political  economy ;  and  everywhere,  both  in  England  and 
America,  the  cry  today  is,  ''Back  to  the  farm!"  One 
of  the  greatest  national  questions  in  England  today  is 
how  to  correct  the  very  evils  which  Goldsmith  deplored 
one  hundred  and  thirty-five  years  ago.    That  the  evils 


80  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

complained  of  by  him  were  not  the  fiction  of  a  poetic 
imagination  is  evident  from  abundant  contemporary  evi- 
dence. Goldsmith  wrote  from  first-hand  knowledge.  In 
his  dedication  of  The  Deserted  Village  to  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  he  says: 

"I  have  taken  all  possible  pains  in  my  country  excursions,  for 
these  four  or  five  years  past,  to  be  certain  of  what  I  allege,  and  all 
my  views  and  inquiries  have  led  me  to  believe  those  miseries  real 
which  I  here  attempt  to  display." 

John  Cowper,  writing  in  1732,  said,  * '  When  these  com- 
mons came  to  be  enclosed  and  converted  into  pasture  the 
Ruin  of  the  Poor  is  a  natural  consequence;  they  being 
bought  out  by  the  lord  of  the  Manor  or  some  other  per- 
son of  substance."  He  said  that  in  thirty  years  more 
than  twenty  villages  ill  his  vicinity  were  depopulated. 
"In  some  parishes  120  families  of  Farmers  and  Cottagers 
have  in  a  few  years  been  reduced  to  four,  to  two,  aye, 
and  sometimes  to  but  one  family,  and  if  the  practice  of 
enclosing  continues  much  longer  we  may  expect  to  see 
all  the  great  estates  ingrossed  by  a  few  Hands,  and  the 
industrious  Farmers  and  Cottagers  almost  entirely  root- 
ed out  of  the  Kingdom."  A  pamphlet  signed  "A  Coun- 
try Farmer"  and  printed  in  1786  (sixteen  years  after 
The  Deserted  Village)  shows  that  in  one  part  of  England 
several  hundred  villages,  which  forty  years  before  con- 
tained four  hundred  to  five  hundred  inhabitants  each, 
then  had  only  forty  to  eighty  each  —  "some  only  one 
poor  decrepit  man  or  woman,  housed  by  the  occupiers 
of  the  lands,  who  live  in  another  parish,  to  prevent  their 
being  obliged  to  pay  towards  the  support  of  the  poor 
who  live  in  the  next  parish."    The  writer  of  the  pamph- 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  81 

let  mentions  one  case  in  which  twenty  farms  were  con- 
solidated into  four  and  the  whole  area  devoted  to  graz- 
ing, sixty  cottages  being  pulled  down.  Two  villages  in 
Leicestershire  within  two  miles  of  each  other,  which  had 
contained  thirty-four  or  thirty-five  dwellings  each,  had 
been  reduced  in  one  case  to  three  houses  and  in  the  other 
to  one  house.  Then  he  goes  on  to  say,  "Many  of  the 
small  farmers  who  have  been  deprived  of  their  livelihood 
have  sold  their  stock-in-trade  and  have  raised  from  £50 
to  £100  with  which  they  procured  themselves  and  their 
families  a  passage  to  America. ' ' 

John  "Wedge,  writing  in  1793  of  his  own  county  of 
Warwickshire,  says,  "The  hardy  yeomanry  of  country 
villages  have  been  driven  for  employment  to  Birming- 
ham, Coventry,  and  other  manufacturing  towns."  In 
the  time  of  Cromwell  there  were  at  least  180,000  yeomen 
and  small  land-owners,  but  a  hundred  years  later  they 
were  being  recognized  as  a  class  of  the  past.  During  the 
ten  years  from  1762  to  1772,  just  when  Goldsmith  was 
■VNTiting  The  Deserted  Tillage,  it  is  known  that  more  than 
1,800  families,  comprising  about  9,000  persons,  were,  in 
consequence  of  "  inclosures, "  sent  adrift  in  four  coun- 
ties alone,  and  the  process  continued  without  interrup- 
tion for  many  years  afterwards. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  the  laws  and  customs, 
particularly  the  latter,  have  made  it  possible  for  most  of 
the  land  of  England  to  come  into  the  hands  of  a  com- 
paratively few  people,  where  it  still  remains.  Fortescue 
says  that  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VI  in  no  country  of 
Europe  were  small  proprietors  so  numerous  as  in  Eng- 
land.    "They  are  they  that  in  times  past  made   all 


82  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

France  afraid"  of  England,  says  Harrison.  Today 
two-thirds  of  the  whole  area  of  England  and  Wales  be- 
longs to  the  members  of  the  House  of  Lords  or  other  men 
of  great  wealth.  The  purpose  of  such  organizations  as 
the  "English  Land  Restoration  League"  is  to  get  these 
great  estates  divided  up  and  placed  once  more  in  the 
hands  of  the  people. 

The  Enclosure  Act,  which  brought  about  the  results 
deplored  by  Goldsmith,  gave  the  lord  of  the  manor  a 
right  to  enclose  the  common  land,  and  at  the  time  of 
Goldsmith  this  act  was  being  enforced  to  its  fullest 
extent.  Between  1760  and  177-i  as  many  as  700  private 
Enclosure  Acts  were  passed  and  at  least  3,000,000  acres 
of  common  land  were  thereby  enclosed.  The  little  land 
holders  were  too  poor  to  pay  for  the  fencing  and  for  the 
expenses  of  the  private  act  under  which  the  enclosure 
was  made  and  the  inevitable  result  followed.  Mr.  G.  G. 
Whiskard,  of  Wadham  College,  Oxford,  says: 

"The  inevitable  result  followed.  Almost  immediately  after  each 
enclosure  the  small  proprietors  sold  their  allotments  at  a  sacrifice 
to  the  lord  of  the  manor  and  all,  or  nearly  all,  the  village  land  fell 
into  the  hands  of  a  single  wealthy  proprietor.  Even  where  the 
small  proprietor  was  able  to  pay  his  share  of  expenses  and  do  his 
own  fencing,  yet  other  expenses  fell  on  him.  He  had  no  one  to 
represent  his  interests  in  Parliament,  and  in  many  of  the  private 
Acts  it  is  expressly  provided  that  the  lord  of  the  manor,  to  whom 
fell  the  greater  share  of  the  old  common  land,  should  be  exempt 
from  paying  any  expenses,  and  should  have  his  fencing  done  for 
him  at  the  joint  cost  of  the  other  proprietors,  among  whom  too  the 
whole  of  the  expenses  were  divided. 

"In  short  the  enclosures  took  the  common  land  of  England  from 
the  poor  and  gave  it  to  the  rich.  It  is  true  that  one  result  of 
this  exchange  was  that  the  land  was  more  profitably  cultivated; 
but  this  good  was  outweighed  by  many  evils.  Tlie  small  farmer 
had  perforce  become  a  laborer,  and  the  laborer,  who  had  formerly 
been  able  to  get  through  the  bad  days  of  winter  with  the  help  of  the 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  83 

cow  which  he  pastured  on  the  common  land,  could  now  do  so  no 
longer,  for  his  pasture  was  taken  from  him.  The  result  was  wide- 
spread distress  and  wholesale  emigration.  The  laborer  who  emi- 
grated was  not  missed  ;  his  place  was  taken  by  machinery.  It  is 
not  altogether  true,  as  Macaulay  would  have  us  believe,  that  the 
dark  side  of  Goldsmith's  picture  is  drawn  entirely  from  Ireland. 
Many  villages  of  England  were  depleted  of  their  inhabitants,  while 
the  status  of  the  few  that  were  left  had  changed  from  the  status 
of  employer  to  that  of  laborer.  A  whole  class  —  that  of  the  small 
farmer  —  had  almost  perished  out  of  England,  and  its  loss  is  felt  to 
this  day." 

"Under  the  Tudors,"  says  Mr.  Lloyd  Sanders,  of  Christ  Church 
College,  "the  practice  of  enclosures  together  with  the  still  more  op- 
pressive plan  of  converting  arable  land  into  pasture-land,  became  a 
crying  evil.  .  .  .  Bishop  Latimer,  in  his  famous  Sermon  on  the 
Plough,  preached  before  the  court  of  Edward  VI,  denounced  the 
nobles  as  'enclosers,  graziers,  and  rent-raisers'.  One  or  two  at- 
tempts were  made  to  check  these  practices.  Henry  VIII  ordered 
the  houses  which  had  been  pulled  down  to  be  rebuilt,  and  limited  the 
number  of  sheep  on  each  farm  to  2,000 ;  and  the  Protector  Somerset 
appointed  a  Royal  Commission  'for  the  redress  of  enclosure'.  Such 
efforts,  however,  were  of  no  avail,  and  complaints  were  frequent 
through  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  the  Stuarts.  Later  it  came  to 
be  thought  necessary  to  obtain  the  sanction  of  Parliament  for  en- 
closure. The  first  Local  Enclosure  Act  was  passed  under  Anne,  and 
since  then  the  permission  of  the  legislature  has  generally  been  re- 
garded as  a  necessary  preliminary  to  enclosure.  Between  the  years 
1700  and  1845  some  4,000  of  these  Acts  were  passed,  and  7,17-5,000 
acres  of  land  consolidated,  whereby  the  class  of  small  yeoman  be- 
came almost  extinct." 

Some  slight  knowledge  at  least  of  the  conditions  here 
briefly  discussed  is  necessary  to  an  understanding  of 
even  the  motive  of  The  Deserted  Village.  Indeed  one  of 
the  great  elements  of  value  in  the  poem  is  its  contribu- 
tion to  our  knowledge  of  the  social  life  of  England  in  the 
last  half  of  the  18th  century ;  for  it  should  be  remembered 
that  the  "Auburn"  of  the  poem  is  an  English  village, 
the  life  described  is  English  life,  and  the  conditions 
English  conditions,  although  the  actual  "Auburn"  has 
been  identified  with  the  village  of  Lissoy  or  Lishoy, 


84  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

Goldsmith's  boyhood  home  in  the  county  of  Westmeath, 
Ireland.  "Lissoy,"  says  Howett,  "consists  in  fact  of  a 
few  common  cottages  by  the  road-side,  in  a  flat  and  by 
no  means  particularly  interesting  scene.  A  few  hundred 
yards  beyond  these  cottages  stand,  at  some  distance 
from  the  road,  the  ruins  of  the  house  where  Goldsmith's 
father  lived.  In  the  front  view  of  the  house  is  the 
'decent  church'  of  Kilkenny  West,  that  literally  'tops 
the  neighboring  hill ' ;  and  in  a  circuit  of  not  more  than 
half  a  mile  diameter  around  the  house  are  'the  never- 
failing  brook',  'the  busy  mill',  'the  hawthorn  bush  with 
seats  beneath  the  shade',  in  short  every  striking  object 
of  the  picture.  There  are,  besides,  many  ruined  houses 
in  the  neighborhood,  bespeaking  a  better  state  of  popu- 
lation than  at  present." 

Goldsmith  evidently  took  his  childhood  home  as  it 
existed  in  his  loving  recollection,  and  gave  it  an  English 
setting. 

But  after  all,  the  supremacy  of  The  Deserted  Village 
lies  not  in  its  political  economy  or  its  value  as  a  his- 
torical document,  but  in  its  descriptions  of  village  life 
and  in  its  characters  of  the  village  preacher  and  the 
village  schoolmaster.  If  it  had  not  been  for  these  the 
poem  would  have  been  forgotten  long  ago,  but  there  are 
hardly  any  lines  in  all  English  literature  more  familiar 
than  those  just  referred  to ;  and  outside  of  Shakespeare 
and  Pope  there  are  no  lines  more  often  quoted.  More- 
over, the  closing  lines  of  the  description  of  the  village 
preacher  contain  one  of  the  finest  similes  to  be  found  in 
the  whole  range  of  English  poetry. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  85 


FROM   THE   DESERTED   VILLAGE 

Sweet  Auburn !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labouring  swain, 

Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 

And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delay 'd: 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease,  5 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 

How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene! 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm,  10 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighbouring  hill, 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade. 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ! 

How  often  have  I  blessed  the  coming  day,  15 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play. 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free. 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree; 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade. 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey  'd ;  20 

And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground. 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round ; 

And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspir'd; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown,  25 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down ; 

The  swain,  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

mistrustless  {Une  27)  — unconscious. 


86  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place; 

The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove.    30 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village !  sports  like  these, 

"With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed. 

These  were  thy  charms  —  but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  la-woi,  35 

Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green: 
One  only  master  grasps  the  v^^hole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain ;  40 

No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day. 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  Avorks  its  weedy  way; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow  sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies,  45 

And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries; 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall; 
And  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler 's  hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land,  50 

111  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay : 


hollow  sounding  bittern  (44)  — the  bittern  Is  a  wading  bird  which 
makes  a  hollow   booming  noise. 

men  decay  (r>'2) — decrease  in  number.  It  does  not  here  mean 
ithat  men  decay  in  character,  altliouph  this  is  the  meaning  universally 
attached  to  It  when  it  is  quoted  by  public  spealsera  and  writers. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  87 

Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade ; 

A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made : 

But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride,  55 

When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England 's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man; 
For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more :  60 

His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health, 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered ;  trade 's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain : 
Along  the  lawn  where  scattered  hamlets  rose  65 

Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose; 
And  every  want  to  opulence  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room,  70 

Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene. 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green ; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore. 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled,    75 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild ; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 


A  breath  can  make  them  (54) — Princes  and  lords  are  created  by 
the   word   of   the   King. 

peasantry  (55)  — here  means  small  land-holders. 


88  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 

A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year;  80 

Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 

Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  his  place; 

Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 

By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour ; 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize  85 

]\Iore  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train. 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain ; 

The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest. 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ;  90 

The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 

Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow 'd; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away; 

"Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done,  95 

Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began.  100 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call. 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all ; 


passing  rich  (80)  — more  than  rich.  The  poet's  father  and  brother 
were  hoth  country  pnr<;nns  and  oarh  received  £40  a  year.  The 
description   here   is   thought   to   be   of   his   father. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  89 

And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries  105 

To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed,         110 
The  reverend  champion  stood.    At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace,  115 

His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man. 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ;  120 

E  'en  children  followed  with  endearing  wile. 
And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed. 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given,       125 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head.  130 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, 


90  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 

The  village  master  taught  his  little  school: 

A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view,  135 

I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew ; 

Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 

The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 

Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 

At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ;  140 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round. 

Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned: 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught, 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew ;  145 

'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher,  too ; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 

And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  o"s^Tied  his  skill. 

And  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still ;      150 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thund'ring  sound 

Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around, 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.    The  very  spot  155 

Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed,  is  forgot, 

0  luxury!  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree. 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy. 
Diffuse  their  pleasure  only  to  destroy!  160 


the  village  master  (134) — The  original  of  this  happy  sketch  waa 
doubtless  Thomas  Byrne,  Goldsmith's  teacher  at  Lissoy. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  91 

Kingdoms,  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 

Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own : 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 

A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe ; 

Till,  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound,    165 

Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

E  'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done ; 
E  'en  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land.  170 

Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale. 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care,  175 

And  kind  connubial  tenderness  are  there, 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above. 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 

—  Oliver  Goldsmith. 


Read  Jloore's  Utopia  in  connection  with  The  Deserted  Village. 
Compare   Chaucer's   Parish    Tricst,   in   the   Prologue   to  the   Canter- 
hurt/    Tales,    with    Goldsmith's    Village   Preacher. 

Note:  A  good  example  of  land  held  in  common  may  still  be  seen 
in  the  suburbs  of  Oxford  where  a  considerable  tract  of  land  has 
been  pastured  in  common  by  the  "freemen"  of  Oxford  since  the  days 
of  the  Norman  conquest. 


To  Mary 


03 


TO  MART  95 

TO  MARY 

Cowper's  poem  To  Mary  is  one  of  the  most  familiar  in 
the  language  —  one  of  the  most  familiar  and  one  of  the 
most  pathetic.  The  lines  are  so  clear  and  so  simple  that 
they  do  not  need  any  "explaining,"  and  yet  the  poem 
has  a  story  back  of  it  which  it  is  needful  to  know  if  one 
is  to  understand  and  appreciate  it. 

William  Cowper  (1731-1800)  came  of  the  nobility.  His 
mother  was  descended  from  Henry  III,  and  his  great 
uncle  was  Lord  Chancellor  for  both  Queen  Anne  and 
George  I.  From  nature  he  received  more  than  a  touch 
of  melancholy  insanity  as  well  as  the  gift  of  genius  —  an 
insanity  which  put  him  twice  into  the  mad-house  and 
made  him  thrice  attempt  suicide.  An  early  love  affair 
with  a  beautiful  cousin  was  frowned  upon  by  her  father, 
and  the  poet  never  married.  His  nature  was  deeply 
religious  and  he  became  the  great  poet  of  the  religious 
revival  in  England  which  we  associate  with  the  names 
of  Wesley  and  Whitefield.  He  wrote  many  of  the  great 
hymns  now  sung  in  all  the  churches.  His  education  was 
good,  but  his  means  were  very  slender,  and  he  was  so  shy 
and  sensitive  and  unworldly  that  he  was  wholly  unfitted 
to  make  his  way  in  this  world.  He  says  of  himself,  with 
heartbreaking  pathos — 

I  was  a  stricken  deer  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since. 

When  he  was  somewhat  past  thirty  years  of  age  he 
became  a  member  of  the  household   of  Rev.   Morley 


96  TO  MARY 

Unwin,  and  all  of  the  rest  of  his  life  is  linked  in  a 
remarkable  way  with  that  family.  Mr.  Unwin  died  two 
years  after  Cowper  took  up  his  residence  with  them,  and 
thereafter  Mrs.  Unwin  and  Cowper  resided  together  in 
a  purity  of  relationship  as  unquestioned  as  their  love  for 
each  other  was  deep.  When  she  was  forty-eight  and 
Cowper  forty-one  they  planned  to  be  married,  but  Cow- 
per's  melancholy  and  despondency  began  to  increase  and 
the  marriage  never  took  place.  Goldwin  Smith  says  of 
this  remarkable  friendship: 


"They  became  companions  for  life.  Cowper  says  they  were  as 
mother  and  son  to  each  other;  but  Mrs.  Unwin  was  only  seven 
years  older  than  he.  To  label  their  connection  is  impossible,  and 
to  try  to  do  it  would  be  a  platitude.  In  his  poems  Cowper  calls 
Mrs.  Unwin  Mary ;  she  seems  always  to  have  called  him  Mr. 
Cowper.  It  is  evident  that  her  son,  a  strictly  virtuous  and  religions 
man,  never  had  the  slightest  misgiving  about  his  mother's 
position." 


In  her  advancing  years  Mrs.  Unwin  had  a  slight  stroke 
of  paralysis  and  her  mind  was  affected.  The  worse  she 
became  the  brighter  beamed  CoA^^per's  affection  for  her. 
In  1793,  while  she  was  in  this  pitiable  state,  he  wrote  the 
poem  To  Mary.  Mrs.  Unwin  died  three  years  later,  aged 
seventy-two.  When  Cowper  looked  upon  her  corpse  he 
flung  himself  across  the  room  with  a  passionate  cry  of 
grief,  and  from  that  time  he  never  mentioned  her  name 
or  spoke  of  her  again.  In  order  that  Cowper  should 
know  nothing  about  the  burial  it  was  performed  at  night 
by  torch-light.  He  survived  her  three  years  and  a  half, 
with  now  and  then  a  gleam  of  reason  and  a  faint  revival 
of  his  great  faculties. 


TO  MARY  97 


TO  MARY 


The  twentieth  year  is  well-nigh  past, 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast; 
Ah,  would  that  this  might  be  the  last ! 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 
I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow, 
'Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low, 

My  Mary! 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store. 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more, 

My  Mary ! 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will. 

My  Mary ! 

But  well  thou  playedst  the  housewife 's  part. 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art 
Have  wound  themselves  about  my  heart, 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  uttered  in  a  dream ; 
Yet  me  they  charm,  what'er  the  theme, 

My  Mary! 


98  TO  MARY 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 

My  Mary ! 

For,  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
"What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see  ? 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 

My  Mary ! 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline. 

Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign. 

Yet,  gently  prest,  press  gently  mine, 

My  Mary ! 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  provest. 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  movest 
Upheld  by  two,  yet  still  thou  lovest, 

My  Mary ! 

And  still  to  love,  though  prest  with  ill. 
In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill. 
With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still. 

My  Mary! 

But  ah !  by  constant  heed  I  know. 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show 
■Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe. 

My  Mary ! 


TO  MARY  99 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last, 

My  Mary ! 

—  William  Cowper. 


Note:  The  first  line  of  the  poem  refers  to  an  attack  of  Insanity 
wliich  Cowper  had  twenty  years  before — the  first  attacls;  after  he  went 
to   live  with    the   Unwins. 

Tennyson  could  never  trust  himself  to  read  this  poem  aloud.  It  ia 
indeed  "full  of  tears." 


Highland  Mary 


101 


HIGHLAND  MARY  103 

HIGHLAND   MARY 

In  the  imposing  monument  to  Robert  Burns  at  AUo- 
way,  near  Ayr,  in  Scotland,  there  may  be  seen  two  small 
volumes,  one  of  the  Old  Testament  and  one  of  the 
New.  On  them  are  written  the  names  "Robert  Burns" 
and  "Mary  Campbell."  They  are  also  inscribed  by  the 
hand  of  the  poet  with  these  two  texts:  "Ye  shall  not 
swear  by  my  name  falsely ;  I  am  the  Lord ; ' '  and  * '  Thou 
shalt  not  forswear  thyself,  but  shalt  perform  unto  the 
Lord  thine  oaths." 

These  two  volumes  with  this  interesting  inscription 
were  given  by  Burns  to  Mary  Campbell  one  Sunday  in 
the  month  of  May,  1786,  on  the  Banks  of  the  Ayr,  and 
Mary  gave  him  a  Bible  in  return.  Standing  on  each 
side  of  a  brook,  and  holding  a  Bible  between  them,  they 
pledged  themselves  to  each  other  while  life  should  last. 
They  expected  to  marry  and  go  to  the  West  Indies,  but 
they  never  saw  each  other  after  that  day.  Mary,  whose 
home  was  on  the  Clyde,  and  who  had  been  working  in 
Burns 's  neighborhood  as  a  children's  maid,  left  at  once 
for  her  home  to  arrange  affairs  for  their  proposed 
"change  of  life,"  as  Burns  says  in  a  letter.  In  the 
autumn  "she  was  returning  to  Glasgow,  where  she  had 
obtained  a  place,  when,  stopping  on  the  road  at  Greenock 
to  attend  a  sick  brother,  she  caught  fever  from  him  and 
died.  She  was  buried  in  the  west  kirkyard  of  the  town, 
a  spot  where  all  who  love  the  Scottish  muse  never  fail 
to  drop  their  fervent  tear."     (John  Stuart  Blackie.) 


104  HIGHLAND  MARY 

A  monument,  erected  by  descendants  of  her  family, 
now  marks  her  grave. 

On  the  third  anniversary  of  her  death  Burns  ^vrote 
To  Mary  in  Heaven,  the  last  three  stanzas  of  which 
describe  the  betrothal  incident: 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 
Where,  by  the  winding  Ayr,  we  met, 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love ! 
Eternity  can  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past, 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace. 

Ah!  little  thought  we  'twas  our  last! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore. 

O'erhung  with  wild-woods,  thickening  green  ; 
The  fragrant  birch  and  hawthorue  hoar, 

Twined  amorous  round  the  raptur'd  scene : 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray  ; 
Till  too,  too  soon  the  glowing  west 

Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  mem'ry  wakes. 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser-care ; 
Time  but  th'  impression  stronger  makes. 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 

Mary  Campbell  was  but  one  of  the  many  flames  of 
the  warm-hearted  Bobbie,  but  she  was  doubtless  the 
object  of  his  deepest  and  sincerost  affection.  She  was 
the  subject  of  some  of  his  'finest  poems,  including  To 
Mary  in  Heaven,  My  Highland  Lassie,  Sweet  Afton,  and 
Highland  Mary. 


HIGHLAND  MARY  105 


HIGHLAND  MARY 


Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers. 

Your  waters  never  drumlie! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

0'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom  'd  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp  'd  her  to  my  bosom ! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  mony  a  vx)w  and  loek'd  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu '  tender ; 
And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder ; 
But,  0 !  fell  Death 's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  eauld's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary! 

0  pale,  pale  now,  those  ruby  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kiss  'd  sae  fondly ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 


lOG  HIGHLAND  MARY 

That  dwelt  on  ine  sae  kindly; 
And  moldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo  'ed  me  dearly ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

—  Robert  Burns. 


Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles 
Above  Tintern  Abbey 


107 


LINES  COMPOSED  ABOVE  TINTERN  ABBEY         109 

LINES     COMPOSED     A     FEW     MILES     ABOVE 
TINTERN  ABBEY 

Lines  composed  a  few  miles  above  Tintern  Ahhey  (gen- 
erally referred  to  as  the  "Tintern  Abbey"  poem)  may 
be  called  the  spiritual  autobiography  of  William  Words- 
worth. It  gives  in  one  hundred  and  sixty  lines  the 
essence  of  all  that  any  biographer  has  been  able  to  tell 
of  his  eighty  years.  To  understand  it  fully  much  of 
Wordsworth's  other  poetry,  particularly  the  Prelude, 
should  be  read,  as  well  as  some  account  of  his  life;  for 
Tintern  Ahhey,  though  radiant  as  well  as  profound,  is 
an  unknown  language  to  the  casual  reader.  One  must  be 
an  ardent  and  devoted  lover  of  both  nature  and  human- 
ity, and  he  must  have  something  of  that  poetic  insight 
which  perceives  "the  light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or 
land,"  else  he  cannot  interpret  it  and  make  it  his  own. 
Wordsworth  spent  nearly  all  of  his  long  life  among  the 
dalesmen  of  northern  England,  brooding  with  his  power- 
ful mind  over  the  relations  of  nature  and  the  spirit  of 
man,  and  the  profoundest  problems  of  life.  The  French 
Revolution  stirred  his  sympathies  deeply,  and  he  spent 
a  short  time  as  a  young  man  in  Paris,  but  the  hor- 
rors of  that  terrible  outburst,  and  particularly  the  Napo- 
leonic days  that  followed,  made  him  lose  faith  for  the 
time  being  in  humanity  and  in  his  own  ideals.  He 
returned  to  England  in  a  most  unhappy  state  of  mind, 
and  led,  as  he  says,  a  homeless  life,  utterly  dejected.  In 
the  summer  of  1793,  the  next  year  after  his  return  from 
France,  he  made  his  first  visit  to  the  valley  of  the  Wye 


110  LINES  COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES 

in  Monmouthshire,  alone  and  on  foot.  The  five  years 
intervening  between  this  and  his  second  visit  were  spent 
chiefly  in  "plain  living  and  high  thinking"  among  the 
quiet  hills,  with  his  sister  Dorothy  as  his  inseparable 
companion  and  with  the  stimulating  friendship  of  Cole- 
ridge ;  though  he  was  sometimes  ' '  'mid  the  din  of  towns 
and  cities."  The  benignant  influence  of  his  sister,  of 
nature,  and  of  Coleridge  restored  Wordsworth's  spirit 
and  wrought  in  him  the  changes  which  he  describes  in 
the  "Tintern  Abbey"  poem.  Nature  was  as  a  medicine 
to  his  soul;  and  as  for  his  sister's  influence,  he  again 
and  again  declares  that  she  it  was  that  kept  him  a  poet 
through  those  distressful  years.  In  June,  1798,  Words- 
worth and  Dorothy  made  that  famous  second  visit  to 
the  Wye  and  to  Tintern  Abbey,  mentioned  in  his  immor- 
tal verse.    In  his  Memoirs  he  says : 

"We  left  Alfoxden  on  Monday  mornin.a:  the  26th  of  June  (1798), 
stayed  with  Coleridge  till  Monday  following,  then  set  forth  on 
foot  towards  Bristol.  We  were  at  Cottle's  for  a  week,  and  thence 
we  went  toward  the  banks  of  the  Wye.  We  crossed  the  Severn 
Ferry  and  walked  ten  miles  further  to  Tintern  Abbey,  a  very  beau- 
tiful ruin  on  the  Wye.  The  next  morning  we  walked  along  the 
river  through  Monmouth  to  Goodrich  Castle,  there  slept,  and  re- 
turned the  next  day  to  Tintern.  thence  to  Chepstow,  and  from 
Chepstow  back  again  in  a  boat  to  Tintern,  where  we  slept,  and 
thence  back  in  a  small  vessel  to  Bristol. 

"The  Wye  is  a  stately  and  majestic  river  from  its  width  and 
depth,  but  never  slow  and  sluggish  ;  you  can  always  hear  its  mur- 
mur. It  travels  through  a  woody  country,  now  varied  with  cot- 
tages and  green  meadows,  and  now  with  huge  and  fantastic  rocks." 

The  Wye  is  "stately  and  majestic"  only  in  compari- 
son with  other  English  streams ;  it  is  a  small  stream  com- 
pared with  American  and  Continental  rivers.  The  Wye 
country,  however,  is  of  surpassing  beauty.  Hill  and  vale 
and  stream  unite  to  make  a  picture  worthy  of  all  the 


ABOVE  TINTERN  ABBEY  111 

praise  that  poets  and  painters  have  showered  upon  it. 
In  the  midst  of  this  charming  setting  is  Tintern  Abbey, 
built  for  the  Cistercian  monks  early  in  the  12th  century, 
and  now  in  picturesque  but  stately  ruins.  A  view  of  the 
Abbey  by  moonlight,  with  the  river  at  its  base  and  the 
hills  towering  all  about  it,  is  an  experience  not  to  be 
forgotten.  These  haunts  of  ancient  peace  are  trans- 
formed by  the  moon  and  the  night  into  faery  lands 
forlorn. 

Near  Goodrich  Castle  is  where  Wordsworth  met  the 
"little  cottage  girl"  of  his  We  Are  Seven  poem,  which 
is  familiar  to  all  school  children. 

Concerning  the  manner  of  the  composition  of  the  Tin- 
tern  Abbey  poem,  Wordsworth  says: 

"No  poem  of  mine  was  composed  under  circumstances  more  pleas- 
ant for  me  to  remember  than  this.  I  began  it  upon  leaving  Tin- 
tern,  after  crossing  the  Wye,  and  concluded  it  just  as  I  was  enter- 
ing Bristol  in  the  evening,  after  a  ramble  of  four  or  five  days  with 
my  sister.  Not  a  line  of  it  was  altered,  and  not  any  part  of  it 
written  down  till  I  reached  Bristol.  It  was  published  almost  imme- 
diately after  in  the  little  volume,  Lyrical  Ballads,  of  which  so 
much  has  been  said  in  these  notes." 

Was  there  ever  before  or  since  such  high  converse? 
Was  there  ever  such  an  improvization  ?  Did  any  other 
traveller  ever  speak  such  radiant  words  in  such  noble 
form  as  he  trudged  across  the  hills  ?  I  know  of  nothing 
more  interesting  or  amazing  in  the  history  of  poetry 
than  this  unaltered  impromptu  of  Wordsworth 's,  spoken 
to  his  sister  as  the  two  strolled  together  in  the  valley  of 
the  Severn  and  the  Wye.  "Not  a  line  of  it  was  altered, 
and  not  any  part  of  it  was  WTitten  down"  until  three 
or  four  days  later.    The  real  significance  of  all  this  lies 


112  LINES  COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES 

in  the  fact  that  it  was  possible  only  because  it  was  the 
expression  of  the  chief  mood  and  meaning  of  his  whole 
life,  the  blossoming  of  accumulated  and  long-maturing 
meditation,  and  mental  suffering,  and  deep  joy  of  resto- 
ration. It  was  perhaps  his  greatest  utterance  as  a  poetic 
teacher  and  interpreter  of  nature  and  of  human  lifo. 

The  dominant  conception  of  the  poem  is  the  relation 
of  nature  to  man,  and  the  relation  of  the  spirit  of  the 
universe  to  both.  In  the  first  twenty-two  lines  there  is  a 
description  of  the  scenery  true  to  its  present  aspect  of 
winding  and  untrimmed  hedgerows,  orchard-tufts,  plots 
of  cottage-ground,  and  the  river  with  its  soft  inland 
murmur. 

Lines  23  to  50  tell  how  the  remembrance  of  these 
beautiful  scenes  has  been  constantly  with  him,  produc- 
ing sensations  sweet,  felt  in  the  blood  and  felt  along 
the  heart.  The  pleasure  thus  given  had  had  no  slight 
influence  on  the  acts  of  daily  life,  his  little  nameless 
unremembered  acts  of  kindness  and  of  love.  To  these 
recollections  he  owed  also  a  higher  and  more  blessed 
mood  —  a  mood  in  Avhich  he  became  so  completely  in 
harmony  with  nature,  and  so  lost  himself,  that  he  was 
more  of  a  spirit  than  a  corporeal  being,  and  was  able 
to  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

The  next  fifteen  lines  (50  to  65)  contain  another 
tribute,  in  more  general  terms,  to  the  healing  power  of 
nature  as  represented  in  the  sylvan  "Wye,  tell  how  his 
spirit  had  turned  to  it  from  the  fretful  stir  and  fever 
of  the  world,  and  express  the  realization  (lines  63-65) 
that  his  mind  is  gathering,  on  this  second  visit,  life  and 
food  for  future  years,  just  as  it  had  done  on  his  first 


ABOVE  TINTERN  ABBEY  113 

visit.  It  was  one  of  the  most  marked  characteristics  of 
"Wordsworth's  genius  that  he  treasured  up  his  pleasant 
experiences  and  emotions,  let  them  mellow  and  ripen  in 
his  mind,  and  turned  them  into  poetry  years  afterward. 
His  poetry  is  full  of  such  instances;  and  in  the  lines  on 
T/ie  Daffodils  he  says : 

For  oft  when  on  my  couch  I  lie, 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude, 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

The  next  forty-five  lines  (65-110)  contain  the  heart  of 
the  poem  —  the  revelation  of  the  four  stages  of  his  de- 
velopment in  his  attitude  towards  nature,  and  man,  and 
the  spirit  of  the  universe  —  the  four  periods  which  Ed- 
ward Dowden  calls  the  period  of  the  blood,  the  period  of 
the  senses,  the  period  of  the  imagination,  and  the  period 
of  the  soul. 

The  first  stage  is  merely  referred  to  in  lines  73-74  — 
the  stage  of  his  boyish  days  when  he  took  such  delight 
in  nature  as  any  healthy  young  animal  might  take. 

The  second  stage  (lines  76-83  especially)  was  that  in 
which  nature  was  an  appetite,  a  feeling  and  a  love  in 
itself,  without  any  association  with  man  and  without  any 
coloring  supplied  by  man.  This  second  stage,  this  pas- 
sion for  nature  as  nature,  lasted  until,  as  Walter  Ra- 
leigh puts  it,  the  fever  of  political  thought  and  passion 
drove  it  out.  Then  came  his  saddening  experiences  with 
the  seething  humanity  of  the  French  Revolution. 

"When  this  crisis  was  past,  the  love  of  nature  returned 
to  him,  but  this  time  associated  with  a  love  of  man  and 


114  LINES  COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES 

with  a  deep  sense  of  the  pathos  of  things.  This  third 
stage  is  described  in  lines  88-93. 

But  another  and  a  still  deeper  change  has  occurred 
{lines  93-102)  ;  he  has  learned  to  see  and  to  feel  the 
spirit  of  God  in  all  created  things,  in  the  light  of  setting 
suns  and  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air  as  well  as 
in  the  mind  of  man.  This  ''something"  which  he  here 
calls  a  "motion  and  a  spirit"  he  calls  "an  active  Prin- 
ciple, "  "  the  Soul  of  all  the  worlds, ' '  and  ' '  the  sentiment 
of  Being,"  in  other  passages.  It  is  a  pantheistic  con- 
ception of  Deity:  God  in  everything,  and  the  spirit  of 
everything  everywhere.  In  many  other  poems  of  his  the 
same  idea  is  expressed,  and  it  was  a  part  of  his  life 
as  well  as  his  creed ;  but  he  held  it  not  inconsistent  with 
the  Christian  idea  of  Deity. 

From  line  110  on  the  poem  is  addressed  to  his  sister, 
in  whose  unmixed  love  of  nature  he  recognizes  himself 
as  he  was  in  his  second  stage.  lie  tells  her  to  let  nature 
have  its  way  with  her,  to  give  herself  up  to  its  ministries 
and  its  rewards;  and  then  when  these  ecstasies  shall  be 
matured  into  a  sober  pleasure,  when  her  mind  shall  be 
a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms  and  her  memory  a  dwell- 
ing-place for  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies,  she  will 
not  forget  these,  his  exhortations,  and  this,  his  heart- 
spoken  poem,  across  the  hills  of  Wye  —  for  nature  never 
did  betray  the  heart  that  loved  her. 

]\Iiss  Wordsworth  was  in  complete  sympathy  with  her 
brother  in  letting  the  moon  shine  on  her  in  her  solitary 
walks  and  in  letting  the  misty  mountain  wands  be  free 
to  blow  against  her.  The  following  extract  from  her 
Journal  illustrates  not  only  her  love  of  nature,  but  her 


ABOVE  TINTERN  ABBEY  115 

devotion  to  her  brother ;  it  is  dated  at  Grasmere,  Novem- 
ber 14,  1800 : 

"A  fine  mild  night.  I  walked  with  William  over  the  Raise.  It 
was  starlight.  I  parted  with  him  very  sad,  unwilling  not  to  go  on. 
The  hills,  and  the  stars,  and  the  white  waters,  with  their  ever- 
varying  yet  ceaseless  sound,  were  very  impressive." 

Sadly  enough,  her  passion  for  nature  led  her  into 
mountain  rambles  which  were  beyond  her  strength,  and 
in  1832  she  had  a  serious  illness  which  left  her  mind 
clouded  for  the  remainder  of  her  life. 


ANALYSIS 

I.  Introduction,  lines  1-22. 
II.  Although  absent,  these  scenes  have  not  been  forgotten  by  the 
poet  (22-57). 

1.  They  have  been  with  him  in  solitude  (25). 

2.  And  amid  the  noise  of  cities  (26). 

3.  He  has  felt  them  in  his  emotion  (28). 

4.  And  in  his  intellect  (29). 

5.  And  they  have  given  him,  also,  unremembered  pleasure 

(31). 

(1)  They  have  influenced  him  like  a  forgotten  kind 
act  (31-35). 

(2)  And  their  recollection  has  lifted  him  into  the  imagi- 
native mood  in  which  his  own  being  was  forgotten 
(35-49)      (The  "period  of  the  imagination"). 

6.  Both    at    night    and    in    joyless    daylight    his    spirit    has 

returned  to  these  scenes  (50-57). 
III.  His  return  calls  up  old  thoughts  and  new   (57). 

1.  This  present  experience  will  furnish  food  for  reflection 

in  future  years. 

2.  On  his  first  visit  nature  was  to  him  an  appetite  (66-83) 

(The  "period  of  the  senses"). 

3.  The  animal  pleasure  in  nature  having  before  that  passed 

away  (73-74)    (The  "period  of  the  blood"). 

4.  He  has  since  learned  to  look  upon  nature  with  a  feeling 

chastened  by  humanity  and  with  the  sense  of  a  spiritual 
Presence  (85-103)    (The  "period  of  the  soul"). 


IIG       LINES  COMPOSED  ABOVE  TINTERN  ABBEY 

5.  And  so  he  is  still  nonetheless  n  lover  of  nature  though 
his  feelings  have  changed   (103-111). 
IV.  Tribute  to  his  sister  Dorothy   (111-159). 

1.  Her  joy  in  nature  is  such  as  his  was  formerly  (110-119). 

2.  He  prays  that  she  may  continue  in  that  joy   (119-121). 

3.  For  nature  can  make  us  feel  that  everything  is  full  of 

blessings   (121-134). 

4.  Her  wild  joy  in  nature  will  by  and  by  become  a  sober 

pleasure  like  his   (134-145). 

5.  Then   she   will   remember  his  exhortation,   their  visit   to- 

gether here,  and  that  he  worshiped  nature  with  a  holier 
love  tian  in  his  youth,  both  for  its  sake  and  for  hers. 


Lines 


117 


LINES  119 


LINES 


Composed  a  few  miles  above  Tintern  Abbey,  on  revisiting  the 
banks  of  the  Wye  during  a  Tour.     July  13,  1798. 

Five  years  have  past ;  five  summers,  with  the  length 

Of  five  long  winters !  and  again  I  hear 

These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 

With  a  soft  inland  murmur.    Once  again 

Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 

That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 

Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion ;  and  connect 

The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 

Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view  10 

These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard-tufts, 

Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits, 

Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 

'Mid  groves  and  copses.    Once  again  I  see 

These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little  lines  15 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild :  these  pastoral  farms, 

Green  to  the  very  door ;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 

Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees ! 


inland  murmur   (line  4)  — where  the  Wye  joins  the   Severn  a  few 
miles  below  Tintern  it   rushes  over  a  rocky   channel,   but  here   It  la 
quiet  and    calm.     Tennyson  In  In  Memoriam   says :  — 
There   twice   a  day   the    Severn   fills ; 
The    salt    sea-water    passes    by, 
And    hushes    half    the    babbling    Wye, 
And   makes   a  silence  in  the  hills. 
Wordsworth   himself  in   a  note   calls   attention   to  the   fact  that  a 
few  miles  above  Tintern  the  Wye  is  not  affected  by  the  tides. 

connect   the   landscape   u-i1h   the  sky    (8)  — a    gradation   of   colors 
from  the  landscape  to  the  sky. 


120  LINES 

With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods,  20 

Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 

The  Hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye: 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din  25 

Of  toAMis  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration :  —  feelings,  too,  30 

Of  unremembered  pleasure ;  such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered,  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.    Nor  less,  I  trust,  35 

To  them  I  may  have  oAved  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime;  that  blessed  mood. 
In  "which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world,  40 

Is  lightened :  —  that  serene  and  blessed  mood. 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on,  — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 


purer  mind  (29) — clearer;  furnishing  not  only  food  for  sensa- 
tion   and    feeling  but  for  quiet   tliougtit   and    contemplation. 

fcrlinf/s.  too,  etc.  (30-35) — such  influences  affect  one's  little  acts 
of  daily  life. 


LINES  121 

Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep  45 

In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul : 

While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 

Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 

We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh !  how  oft  —  50 

In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight ;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart  — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee,  55 

O  sylvan  Wye !  thou  wandered  thro '  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity,  60 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again : 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.    And  so  I  dare  to  hope,  65 

Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was  when  first 


ice  are  laid  asleep  in  body  .  .  .  see  into  the  life  of  things 
(45-49) — In  various  other  poems,  notably  the  Prelude  and  the  Ex- 
cursion, he  speaks  of  this  power  of  the  spirit  of  man  to  become  one 
with,  to  fuse  itself  with,  the  spirit  of  nature.  "Freed  from  the 
bonds  of  sense,  the  soul  rises  to  communion  with  the  spirit  that 
works  harmoniously  in  nature,  and  with  clear  vision  and  intense  joy 
beholds  the  Inner  life  of  things."  It  is  worth  pointing  out  that  In  the 
"inner  life  of  things"  Wordsworth  saw  always  joy  and  love  —  a  joy 
chastened   and  subdued,   but   always  joy   and   love. 


122  LINES 

I  came  among  these  hills ;  when  like  a  roe 

I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 

Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 

Wherever  nature  led :  more  like  a  man  70 

Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 

"Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.    For  nature  then 

( The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 

To  me  was  all  in  all,  —  I  cannot  paint  75 

What  then  I  was.    The  sounding  cataract 

Haunted  me  like  a  passion :  the  tall  rock, 

The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 

Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 

An  appetite ;  a  feeling  and  a  love,  80 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm. 

By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 

Unborrowed  from  the  eye.  —  That  time  is  past, 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more. 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.    Not  for  this  85 

Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur ;  other  gifts 

Have  followed;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 

Abundant  recompense.    For  I  have  learned 

To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth ;  but  hearing  oftentimes  90 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 


sad  music  of  humanity  (91)  — in  the  Ode  on  Immortality  he  says  : — 
The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do    take    a    sober    coloring    from    an    eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality. 


LINES  123 

To  chasten  and  subdue.    And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts ;  a  sense  sublime  95 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 

And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man ; 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels  100 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things.    Therefore  am  I  still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 

And  mountains ;  and  of  all  that  w^e  behold 

From  this  green  earth ;  of  all  the  mighty  world  105 

Of  eye,  and  ear  —  both  what  they  half  create, 

And  what  perceive ;  well  pleased  to  recognise 

In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul  110 

Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirit  to  decay : 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 


trhat   they   half  create   (lOfl)  — what  is  lent  to  natural  objects  by 
the  imagination   of  the  beholder,  — 

The    light    that    never    was,    on    sea    or    land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream. 


124  LINES 

Of  this  fair  river ;  thou  my  dearest  Friend,  115 

My  dear,  dear  Friend ;  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 

The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 

My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 

Of  thy  wild  eyes.    Oh !  yet  a  little  while 

IMay  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once,  120 

My  dear,  dear  Sister !  and  this  prayer  I  make 

Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 

The  heart  that  loved  her ;  'tis  her  privilege, 

Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 

From  joy  to  joy:  for  she  can  so  inform  125 

The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 

With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 

With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 

Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men. 

Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all  130 

The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 

Shall  e  'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 

Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 

Is  full  of  blessings.    Therefore  let  the  moon 


my  dearest  Friend  (115)  — His  sister  Dorothy.  Concerning  her  In- 
fluence In  restoring  him  to  a  happier  state  of  mincl,  be  says  in  the 
Prelude : 

Then  It  was  — 

Thanks  to  the  bountcoas  Giver  of  all  good  — 

That    the    bolovCd    Sister    in    whose    sight 

Those  days  were  passed,  now  speaking  In  a  voice 

Of   sudden   admonition  —  like   a   brook 

That    did    but    cross    a    lonely    road,    and    now 

Is  seen,   heard,   felt,   and   caught  at  every  turn, 

Companion    never   lost    through   many    a    league  — • 

Maintained   for   me  a   saving   intercourse. 

She   in   the   midst   of   all,   preserved   me   still 

A   Poet. 


LINES  125 

Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk ;  .  135 

And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 

To  blow  against  thee :  and,  in  after  years, 

When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure ;  when  thy  mind 

Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms,  140 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies ;  oh !  then 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me,  145 

And  these  my  exhortations !    Nor,  perchance  — 

If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence  —  wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream  150 

We  stood  together :  and  that  I,  so  long 

A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 

Unwearied  in  that  service :  rather  say 

With  warmer  love  —  oh !  with  far  deeper  zeal 

Of  holier  love.    Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget,  155 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 

Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 

And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 

More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake ! 

—  William  Wordsworth. 


Wordsworth's  great  Ode  on  Immortalify  should  be  read  carefully 
in  connection  with  the  study  of  the  "Tintern  Abbey"  poem. 


Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality 

from  Recollections  of  Early 

Childhood 


127 


ODE  ON  INTIMATIONS  129 


ODE  ON  INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY  FROM 
RECOLLECTIONS  OF  EARLY  CHILDHOOD 

Principal  Shairp  says  that  Wordsworth's  Ode  ''marks 
the  highest  limit  which  the  tide  of  poetic  inspiration  has 
reached  in  England"  since  the  days  of  Milton;  Lord 
Houghton  (R.  M.  Milnes)  called  it  "the  greatest  poem 
in  the  English  language,"  and  Emerson  said  ''The  Ode 
on  Immortality  is  the  high-water  mark  which  the  intel- 
lect has  reached  in  this  age. ' ' 

Wordsworth  contributes  materially  to  the  interpreta- 
tion of  the  poem  in  his  own  prose  account  of  his  child- 
hood feelings  and  experiences.    He  says: 

"This  was  composed  during  my  residence  at  Town-End,  Gras- 
mere.  Two  years  at  least  passed  between  the  writing  of  the  first 
four  stanzas  and  the  remaining  part.  To  the  attentive  and  com- 
petent reader  the  whole  sufficiently  explains  itself,  but  there  may 
be  no  harm  in  adverting  here  to  particular  feelings  or  experiences 
of  my  own  mind  on  which  the  structure  of  the  poem  partly  rests. 
Nothing  was  more  difficult  for  me  in  childhood  than  to  admit  the  . 
notion  of  death  as  a  state  applicable  to  my  own  being.  I  have 
said  elsewhere : 

'A  simple  child 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath. 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death?' 

"But  it  was  not  so  much  from  the  source  of  animal  vivacity 
that  my  difficulty  came,  as  from  a  sense  of  the  indomitableness  of 
the  spirit  within  me.  I  used  to  brood  over  the  stories  of  Enoch 
and  Elijah,  and  almost  persuade  myself  that,  whatever  might  be- 
come of  others,  I  should  be  translated  in  something  of  the  same 
way  to  heaven.  With  a  feeling  congenial  to  this,  I  was  often 
unable  to  think  of  external  things  as  having  external  existence, 
and  I  communed  with  all  that  I  saw  as  something  not  apart  from, 
but  inherent  in,  my  own  immaterial  nature.     Many   times  while 


130  ODE  ON  INTIMATIONS 

going  to  school  have  I  grasped  at  a  wall  or  tree  to  recall  myself 
from  this  abyss  of  idealism  to  the  reality.  At  that  time  I  was 
afraid  of  mere  processes.  In  later  periods  of  life  I  have  deplored, 
as  we  have  all  reason  to  do,  a  subjugation  of  an  opposite  character, 
and  have  rejoiced  over  the  remembrances,  as  is  expressed  in  the 
lines  Obstinate  Questionings,  etc.  To  that  dream-like  vividness 
and  splendour,  which  invests  objects  of  sight  in  childhood,  every 
one,  I  believe,  if  he  would  look  back,  could  bear  testimony,  and  I 
need  not  dwell  upon  it  here ;  but  having  in  the  poem  regarded  it  as 
a  presumptive  evidence  of  a  prior  state  of  existence,  I  think  it  right 
to  protest  against  a  conclusion,  which  has  given  pain  to  some  good 
and  pious  persons,  that  I  meant  to  inculcate  such  a  belief.  It  is 
far  too  shadowy  a  notion  to  be  recommended  to  faith  as  more  than 
an  element  in  our  instincts  of  immortality." 

John  Ruskin,  in  discussing  the  relation  of  nature  to 
art,  says  {Modern  Painters,  part  3,  Chapter  5) : 

"I  suppose  there  are  few,  among  those  who  love  nature  otherwise 
than  by  profession  and  at  second-hand,  who  look  not  back  to  their 
youngest  and  least-learned  days  as  those  of  the  most  intense,  super- 
stitious, insatiable,  and  beatific  perception  of  her  splendours.  And 
the  bitter  decline  of  this  glorious  feeling,  though  many  note  it  not, 
partly  owing  to  the  cares  and  weight  of  manhood,  which  leave 
them  not  the  time  nor  the  liberty  to  look  for  their  lost  treasure, 
and  partly  to  the  human  and  divine  affections  which  are  appointed 
to  take  its  place,  yet  has  formed  the  subject  not  indeed  of  lamenta- 
tion, but  of  holy  thankfulness  for  the  witness  it  bears  to  the  im- 
mortal origin  and  end  of  our  nature  to  one  whose  authority  is  al- 
most without  appeal  in  all  questions  relating  to  the  influence  of 
external  things  upon  the  pure  human  soul.  .  .  .  And  if  it  were 
possible  for  us  to  recollect  all  the  unaccountable  and  happy  in- 
stincts of  the  careless  time,  and  to  reason  upon  them  with  the 
maturer  judgment,  we  might  arrive  at  more  rapid  and  right  results 
than  either  the  philosophy  or  the  sophisticated  practice  of  art  have 
yet  attained." 

The  main  idea  of  the  Ode  may  be  found  in  a  little 
poem  called  The  Eetreat,  by  William  Vaughan,  a  "Pla- 
tonic ' '  poet  of  the  seventeenth  century : 

Happy  tKose  early  days,  when  I 
Shined  in  my  Angel-infancy  ! 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 


FROM  RECOTJ.ECTIONS  131 

Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught 
But  a  white  celestial  thought; 
When  yet  I  had  not  walk'd  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love. 
And  looking  back,  at  that  short  space 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright  face ; 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy, 
Some  shadows  of  eternity  ; 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  several   sin   to  every  sense, 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  back. 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train  ; 
From  whence  th'  enlighten'd  spirit  sees 
That  shady  City  of  Palm  trees : 
But  ah  !  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way :  — 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move; 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 

The  theme  of  "Wordsworth's  Ode  is,  that  with  the 
passing  of  childhood  many  of  the  soul's  possessions 
necessarily  pass  away,  but  its  essential  nature  does  not 
pass;  the  cliaracter  of  these  early  possessions,  and  their 
power  to  remain,  though  changed,  indicate  a  heavenly 
pre-existence  and  a  future  immortality.  Notice  that  he 
calls  them  not  arguments  but  "intimations." 

There  are  three  stages  in  the  development  of  the 
theme:  (1)  The  attitude  of  the  child  towards  nature. 
(2)  The  losses  of  these  feelings  that  older  life  experi- 


132  ODE  ON  INTIMATIONS 

ences.     (3)   The  spiritual  possessions  that  remain  per- 
manently—  "the  strength  in  what  remains  behind." 

Professsor  W.  D.  IMacClintock  offers  the  following 
analysis : 

1.  A  beauty  and  glory  which  once  rested  upon  the  earth  for  the 

child  has  passed  away  for  the  man.     St.  I-IV. 

(a)  This  glory  has  passed  away  from  the  common  sights  of 
nature  and  from  the  rare.     St.  I-II. 

(b)  What  a  pity  that  we  should  thus  complain  while  na- 
ture about  is  so  joyous !  Attempt  made  to  rejoice. 
But  some  aspect  of  nature  brings  back  the  mood  of 
regret.     St.  III-IV. 

2.  The  coming  and  the  going  of  this  glory  accounted  for.  St.  V-VIII. 

(a)  It  came  with  the  child  from  his  pre-existing  state. 
St.  V. 

(b)  It  passes  away. 

(1)  Because  nature  is  so  attractive  to  the  child. 
St.  VI. 

(2)  Because  the  child  takes  on  the  yoke  of  life  as  a 
result  of  his  instinct  for  imitation.     St.  VII. 

An  exclamation  of  pity  that  the  child  must  grow  older 
and  lose  his  early  knowledge  and  feeling.    St.  VIII. 

(3)  Though  much  is  gone,  the  soul's  essential  instincts 
remain,  indicating  a  native  and  indestructible  spirit- 
ual nature.     St.  IX. 

(4)  After  this  conclusion,  nature  is  viewed  again 
calmlv  and  with  more  joy  than  when  the  poet  was 
a  child.     St.  X-XI. 

Stanza  VII  is  an  epitome  of  man's  life  on  earth.  The 
"six  years  darling"  especially  in  the  mind  of  Words- 
worth was  Hartly  Coleridge.  "Humorous  st^ge"  {line 
103)  is  quoted  from  Shakespeare's  A<i  You  Like  It.  It 
means  the  stage  on  which  are  exhibited  the  moods, 
whims,  caprices  and  manners  of  mankind. 

Stanza  VIII  is  a  stumbling-block  to  many  students. 
They  cannot  comprehend  how  a  mere  child  can  be  the 
"best  philosopher"  and  "mighty  prophet."     Stopford 


FROM  RECOLLECTIONS  133 

Brooke,  in  his  Theology  in  the  English  Poets,  helps  to 
make  the  meaning  clear.    He  says: 

"We  can  only  catch  the  main  idea  among  expressions  of  the 
child  as  the  best  philosopher,  the  eye  among  the  blind  .  .  .  the 
mighty  prophet,  the  seer  blest  —  expressions  which  taken  separately 
have  scarcely  any  recognizable  meaning.  By  taking  them  all  to- 
gether, we  feel  rather  than  see  that  Wordsworth  intended  to  say 
that  the  child,  having  lately  come  from  a  perfect  existence,  in 
which  he  saw  truth  directly,  and  was  at  home  with  God,  retains, 
unknown  to  us,  that  vision  —  and,  because  he  does,  is  the  best 
philosopher,  since  he  sees  at  once  that  which  we  through  philosophy 
are  endeavoring  to  reach  ;  is  the  mighty  prophet,  because  in  his 
actions  and  speech  he  tells  unconsciously  the  truths  he  sees,  but  the 
sight  of  which  we  have  lost ;  is  more  closely  haunted  by  God,  more 
near  to  the  immortal  life,  more  purely  and  brightly  free  because  he 
half  shares  in  the  pre-existeut  life  and  glory  out  of  which  he  has 
come." 

Stanza  9  has  some  difficult  lines,  particularly  lines 
141-147.  Wordsworth  himself  gave  an  interpretation  of 
them  to  Professor  Price  of  Oxford  (see  Professor  Price's 
letter  in  William  Knight's  edition  of  Wordsworth,  The 
Maemillan  Company,  Vol.  VIII,  p.  201).  When  Price 
asked  him  what  were  those  "fallings  from  us,  vanish- 
ings,"  etc.,  for  which  above  all  other  things  he  gave 
thanks,  Wordsworth  replied :  '  There  was  a  time  in  my 
life  when  I  had  to  push  against  something  that  resisted, 
to  be  sure  that  there  was  anything  outside  of  me.  I 
was  sure  of  my  own  mind;  everything  else  fell  away, 
and  vanished  into  thought."  Moreover,  Wordsworth 
thought  that  such  experiences  were  common  to  childhood. 

Stanza  11  should  be  studied  in  connection  with  lines 
88-102  in  Tintern  Ahhey,  in  which  he  says, 

For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth  ;  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity,  etc. 


134  ODE  ON  INTIMATIONS 

He  interprets  nature  through  the  experiences  of  life 
and  the  heart  of  man.  This  is  Wordsworth's  supreme 
gift  to  the  world. 


ODE 

INTIMATIONS    OP    IMMORTALITY    PROM    RECOLLECTIONS    OP 
EARLY   CHILDHOOD 


There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream 
The  earth;  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ; 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 


The  rainbow  comes  and  goes,  10 

And  lovely  is  the  rose ; 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair;  15 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth : 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 


FROM  RECOLLECTIONS  135 


Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 

And  while  the  young  lamhs  bound  20 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief ; 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong : 
TJie  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep ;       25 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong ; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng. 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  sea  30 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday ; — 
Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  35 

Thou  happy  Shepherd-Boy ! 

4 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee ; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival,  40 

My  head  hath  its  coronal. 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel  —  I  feel  it  all. 

O  evil  day ;  if  I  were  sullen 

While  Earth  herself  is  adorning. 


fields  of  sleep   {line  28)  —  probably  early  morning  when  the  fields 
were    sleeping. 


136  ODE  ON  INTIMATIONS 

This  sweet  May-morning,  45 

And  the  Children  are  culling 
On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 

Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm: —  50 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear! 

— But  there's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon. 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone : 

The  Pansy  at  my  feet  55 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
"Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting : 

The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star,  60 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  coraeth  from  afar. 

Not  in  entire   forgetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  do  we  come  65 

From  God,  Who  is  our  home : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows,  70 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy ! 


prison  house  (C8)  —  the  world ;  this  life. 


FROM  RECOTXECTIONS  137 

The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 
And  b}^  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended  ;  75 

At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 

And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 


Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 

Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 

And  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind,  80 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man, 

Forget  the  glories  ,he  hath  known. 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came.  85 


Behold  the  child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 

A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size ! 

See  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 

Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses. 

With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes!  90 

See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 

Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 

Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art : 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral;  95 


farther  from  the  east  (72)  —  farther  from  infancy. 
Imperial  palace  (85) — his  celestial  home. 


138  ODE  ON  INTIMATIONS 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song ; 
Then  i\\dll  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long  100 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "humorous  stage" 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age,  105 

That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation. 

Were  endless  imitation. 


8 


Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity;  110 

Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind. 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet ;    Seer  blest !  115 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 

Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave,  120 

A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 


FROM  RECOLLECTIONS  139 

Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being 's  height, 

Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 

The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke,  125 

Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 

Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 

And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight. 

Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life! 

9 

0  joy !  that  in  our  embers  130 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction :  not  indeed  135 

For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest  — 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast ;  — 

Not  for  these  I  raise  140 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise ; 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 

Of  sense  and  outward  things ; 

Fallings  from  us,  vanishings ; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature  145 

Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised ; 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  nature 


heaven-horn  freedom  on  thy  icing's  heifflit  (123)  — "Childhood  Is,  as 
it  were,  the  mountain-top,  the  natural  type  of  freedom  and  nearest 
heaven,  from  which  men  descend  by  easy  steps  into  the  vale  of  man- 
hood." 

emhers  (130) — old  age. 


140  ODE  ON  INTIMATIONS 

Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised ; 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections,  150 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing. 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  haye  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being  155 

Of  the  Eternal  Silence ;  truths  that  wake. 

To  perish  never, 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  man  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy,  160 

Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be. 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither;  165 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  w^aters  rolling  evermore. 

10 
Then  sing,  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 

And  let  the  j'oung  lambs  bound  170 

As  to  the  tabor 's  sound ! 
We  in  thought  will  j<)in  your  throng. 


ie  the;/  ichat  they  may   (151) — to  him  thoy  were  "Intimations  of 
immortality." 

man  nor  hoy  (139)  — manhood  and  boyhood. 

calm  weather  (1G2)  — qniot  moods. 

that  immortal  sea  (164)  — the  ocean  of  eternity. 


FROM  RECOLLECTIONS  141 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May !  175 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 

Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower ; 

"We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find  180 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind ; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be ; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering;  185 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 

In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 


11 


And  0  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ;  190 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  Brooks  which  do\\Ti  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day  195 

Is  lovely  yet ; 
The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 


142  ODE  ON  INTIMATIONS 

Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won.      200 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  Avhich  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

•^William  Wordsworth. 


Another  race,  etc.    (200)  — the  race  li.ns  been  run  and   the  victory 
won. 


Rome 


143 


ROME  145 

ROME 
(From  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  Canto  IV,  Stanzas  78-82.) 

Modern  Rome  stands  thirty  feet  above  the  level  of 
Ancient  Rome,  and  when  Lord  Byron  was  there  in  1817 
no  excavations  had  been  made.  Since  that  time,  espe- 
cially during  the  past  twenty-five  years,  many  of  the 
ruins  of  its  ancient  splendors  have  been  brought  to  light. 
Modern  research  has  been  able  to  do  what  Byron  said 
could  not  be  done:  "trace  the  void  .  .  .  and  say 
'here  was,  or  here  is.'  "  Rome  is  no  longer,  thanks  to 
these  scientific  explorations,  "as  the  desert,  where  we 
steer  stumbling  o'er  recollections."  However,  an  im- 
mense amount  of  work  still  remains  to  be  done. 

Rome  was  founded  753  B.  C,  and  increased  until,  as 
everybody  knows,  it  became  the  capital  of  the  world. 
Destructive  fires  occurred  at  various  times,  notably  in 
64  A.  D.,  during  the  reign  of  Nero.  Constantine,  in 
330  A.  D.,  embellished  Constantinople  with  many  monu- 
ments and  works  of  art  from  Rome.  Between  A.  D.  408 
and  445  the  city  was  ravished  by  the  Goths,  the  Vandals, 
and  the  Germans,  and  in  476  the  Roman  Empire  was 
broken  up.  From  the  eleventh  to  the  sixteenth  centuries 
many  buildings  in  Rome  were  used  as  fortresses  by  the 
nobles  in  their  continual  war  upon  one  another.  During 
what  we  call  the  Dark  Ages  many  magnificent  monu- 
ments and  works  of  art  were  deliberately  destroyed  by 
the  Romans  themselves  in  order  to  make  lime  for  their 
new  palaces  and  houses.  The  splendid  and  beautiful  old 
marble  structures  being  pagan,  the  Christians  of  Rome 


146  ROME 

thouglit  they  were  doing  Grod-serviee  when  they  melted 
them  down  into  lime.  Rome  was  destroyed  quite  as 
mueh  by  vandals  from  within  as  by  vandals  from  with- 
out. But  what  was  once  the  mistress  of  the  world  in 
military  power  is  still  the  mistress  of  the  world  in 
human  interest. 

The  transfiguring  power  of  the  poetic  imagination  is 
shown  in  the  stanzas  before  us.  Byron,  standing  in  the 
midst  of  modern  Rome  with  its  "strange  mixture,"  as 
Dr.  Russell  Forbes  says,  "of  narrow  streets,  open  squares, 
churches,  fountains,  ruins,  new  palaces,  and  dirt,"  saw, 
not  these  things,  but  the  Niobe  of  Nations,  childless  and 
crownless  in  her  voiceless  woe.  According  to  an  old 
myth,  Niobe  had  fourteen  children,  seven  sons  and  seven 
daughters,  of  whom  she  was  very  proud.  She  boasted 
of  them  to  Leto,  who  had  only  two  children,  and  Leto, 
in  revenge,  persuaded  the  gods  to  destroy  Niobe 's  chil- 
dren. Niobe  is  always  regarded  as  the  personification 
of  grief.  Rome  w^as  once  the  mother  of  kingdoms,  and 
Byron's  application  of  the  old  myth  is  very  appropriate. 
The  myth  goes  on  to  say  that  Niobe  was  turned  into  a 
stone  in  the  figure  of  a  woman  sitting  in  the  attitude  of 
deep  grief;  hence  Byron's  phrase,  "her  voiceless  woe." 
* '  An  empty  urn  in  her  withered  hand "  is  an  allegorical 
representation  of  the  empty  tombs  and  sepulchres  to  be 
found  everywhere  in  and  about  Rome.  In  the  same 
stanza  he  says : 

"The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers." 


ROME  147 

The  family  tomb  of  the  Seipios  was  discovered  near 
the  Appian  Way  a  short  distance  out  of  Rome  in  1780. 
The  bones  of  many  distinguished  members  of  the  family, 
with  their  inscriptions,  were  found.  The  bones  were 
carried  to  Padua,  and  the  original  inscriptions  removed 
to  the  Vatican.  Visitors  to  Rome  to-day  are  shown  many 
such  empty  tombs,  but  only  their  brick  or  rough-stone 
walls  remain ;  the  beautiful  marble  with  which  they  were 
all  veneered  was  turned  into  lime  or  used  in  building 
churches  long  ago. 


ROME 

O  Rome !  my  country !  city  of  the  soul ! 

The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires !  and  control 

In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
"What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance  ?    Come  and  see         5 

The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O  'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples.  Ye ! 

Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day  — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

The  Niobe  of  nations !  there  she  stands,  10 

Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe ; 

An  empty  urn  within  her  withered  hands. 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago; 

The  Seipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now; 

The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless  15 

Of  their  heroic  dwellers :  dost  thou  flow, 


148  ROME 

Old  Tiber!  through  a  marble  wilderness? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress. 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Flood,  and  Fire, 
Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hilled  city's  pride;  20 

She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride, 

"Where  the  ear  climbed  the  Capitol ;  far  and  wide 
Temple  and  toAver  went  down,  nor  left  a  site : 

Chaos  of  ruins!  who  shall  trace  the  void,  25 

O  'er  the  dim  fragments  east  a  lunar  light, 
And  say,  "here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is  doubly  night? 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 

Night's  daughter.  Ignorance,  hath  wrapt  and  wrap 
All  round  us :  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err :  30 

The  ocean  hath  its  chart,  the  stars  their  map. 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap ; 

But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections;  now  we  clap 

Our  hands,  and  cry  "Eureka!"  it  is  clear —  35 

When  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 


Through  a  marble  icildcrnesn  (line  17)  —  the  great  buildings,  monu- 
ments, and  statues  of  Ancient  Rome  were  chiefly  of  marble. 

up  the  steep,  etc.  (22-23)  — the  carriage-road  by  which  the  chariot 
("car")  of  the  victorious  general  ascended  the  Capltoline  Hill  in 
the  triumphal  processions,  in  which  "barbarian  monarchs"  were 
often  led.  —  H.   F.  Tozer. 

trace  the  void  (25)  — explore  the  waste  places. 

lunar  (26)  — pale  or  feeble. 

Eureka    (35) — "I   have    found    It." 

Kome  false  mirage  o]  ruin  (36)  — ruins  suggesting  deceptive  his- 
torical association. 


ROME  149 

Alas !  the  lofty  city !  and  alas ! 

The  trebly  hundred  triumphs !  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 

The  conqueror 's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away !  40 

Alas  for  Tully's  voice,  and  Vergil's  lay, 

And  Livy's  pictured  page !  —  but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection ;  all  beside  —  decay. 

Alas,  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see, 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  45 

was  free! 

—  Lord  Byron. 

Byron  had  been  practically  driven  out  of  England  by 
his  enemies,  and  he  is  doubtless  thinking  of  himself  when 
he  speaks,  in  the  first  stanza  of  '  *  orphans  of  the  heart, ' ' 
but  he  contrasts  the  littleness  of  all  such  personal  deso- 
lation with  the  desolation  of  Rome. 


trebly  liundred  triumphs  (38)  —  Byron  has  a  note  on  this  passage 
In  which  he  quotes  Oroslus  as  saying  that  there  were  320  Romaa 
triumphal   processions. 

When  Brutus  made,  etc.  (39) — referring  to  the  murder  of  Caesar 
by  Brutus.  This  act  won  greater  fame  than  the  victories  of  gen- 
erals. 

but  these  shall  be,  etc.  (42)  — the  works  of  Roman  orators,  poets, 
and   historians   shall   not   perish. 


Days 


151 


DAYS  153 


DAYS 

Emerson 's.  favorite  among  his  own  poems  was  Days. 
It  was  not  only  his  favorite,  but  the  theme  of  it  comes 
up  again  and  again  in  his  essays.  The  following  passages, 
quoted  from  them,  perfectly  explain  the  poem  —  explain 
it  as  well  as  if  they  had  been  written  for  the  purpose : 

"Silent,  passive,  even  sulkily,  Nature  offers  every  morning  her 
wealth  to  man.  She  is  immensely  rich  ;  he  is  welcome  to  ber  entire 
goods ;  but  she  speaks  no  word,  will  not  so  much  as  beckon  or 
cough;  only  this,  she  is  careful  to  leave  all  her  doors  ajar  — 
towers,  hall,  stateroom,  and  cellar.  If  he  takes  her  hint  and  uses 
her  goods,  she  speaks  no  word ;  if  he  slumbers  and  starves,  she 
says  nothing." 

"The  Days  are  ever  divine  as  to  the  first  Aryans.  They  come 
and  go,  like  muffled  and  veiled  figures  sent  from  a  distant,  friendly 
party ;  but  they  say  nothing,  and,  if  we  do  not  use  the  gifts  they 
bring,  they  carry  them  as  silently  away." 

"Write  it  on  your  heart  that  every  day  is  the  best  day  in  the 
year.  No  man  has  learned  anything  rightly  until  he  knows  that 
every  day  is  Doomsday.  'Tis  the  old  secret  of  the  gods  that  they 
come  in  low  disguises." 

The  Days  are  called  "hypocritie"  because  they  come 
bearing  their  gifts  in  disguise.  From  their  marvelous 
store  we  may  choose  what  we  will  —  diadems  and  king- 
doms and  stars  of  love  and  life  and  hope  and  work,  or 
only  food  for  the  body  and  the  things  of  the  flesh ;  or  we 
may  even  choose  the  fagots  that  set  on  fire  and  destroy 
all  the  finer  things  of  the  spirit. 

The  poem  is  one  of  great  beauty  as  well  as  great 
power.  It  is  a  "criticism  of  life"  in  the  highest  sense. 
No  one  who  has  fully  learned  its  meaning  can  ever 
forget  it.  Continually  he  will  see  the  Days  marching 
by  in  endless  file,  "muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  der- 


154  DAYS 

visiles,"  each  bearing  in  her  hands  all  manner  of  gifts; 
and  when  his  choice  is  foolish  or  evil  he  will  not  fail  to 
see  the  scorn  that  clouds  her  shadowed  brow  as  she  turns 
and  departs,  never,  through  infinite  ages,  to  pass  again 
that  way  or  offer  him  again  her  store. 

If  teachers  are  looking  for  a  text,  here  it  is : 


DAYS 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypoeritic  Days, 

Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 

And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 

Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 

To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will. 

Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them  all. 

I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 

Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 

Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 

Turned  and  departed  silent.    I,  too  late. 

Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 

—  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


"/,  in  my  pleached  garden,"  etc.,  represents  humanity  generally,  In 
choosing  the  trifling  gifts  the  Day  brings,  rather  than  the  gifts  that 
ore  beyond  price  or  praise,  and  how  the  Day,  under  her  solemn 
fillet,  looks  with  silent  scorn  upon  such  choice  of  gifts. 

"Pleached"   means   interwoven,  like  the  boughs  of  trees. 

"Pomp"  here  means  a  pageant  or  procession. 


The  Problem 


155 


THE  PROBLEM  157 


THE   PROBLEM 

The  best  known  and  perhaps  the  greatest  of  Emer- 
son's poems  is  The  Problem,  and  it  is  doubtless  one  of 
the  three  or  four  best  poems  in  American  literature. 

The  chief  idea  contained  in  it  is  the  idea  of  sincerity 
—  a  sincerity  whole  and  absolute,  like  that  of  nature 
herself,  and  this  sincerity  is  possible  only  to  those  who 
yield  themselves  to  the  Soul  of  the  universe  working  in 
them.  Emerson  believed  that  all  such  are  "inspired," 
whether  they  be  artists,  architects,  poets,  preachers,  or 
writers  of  sacred  books.  In  a  letter  to  John  Sterling  he 
said: 

"All  thoughts  are  holy  when  they  come  floating  up  to  us  in 
magical  newness  from  the  hidden  Life,  and  'tis  no  wonder  we  are 
enamoured  with  these  Muses  and  Graces.  .  .  .  Yet  how  we 
thank  and  greet,  and  almost  adore  the  person  who  has  once  or 
twice  in  a  lifetime  treated  anything  sublimely,  and  certified  to  us 
that  he  beheld  the  Law." 

The  Problem  was  originally  called  The  Priest,  and  its 
inception  may  be  found  in  the  following  extracts  from 
Emerson's  journal  of  August  28,  1838: 

"It  is  very  grateful  to  my  feelings  to  go  into  a  Roman  Cathedral, 
yet  I  look  as  my  countrymen  do  at  the  Roman  priesthood.  It  is 
very  grateful  to  me  to  go  into  an  English  Church  and  hear  the 
liturgy  read,  yet  nothing  would  induce  me  to  be  the  English 
priest. 

"I  find  an  unpleasant  dilemma  in  this,  nearer  home.  I  dislike  to 
be  a  clergyman  and  refuse  to  be  one,  yet  how  rich  a  music  would 
be  to  me  a  holy  clergyman  in  my  town.  It  seems  to  me  he  cannot 
be  a  man,  quite  and  whole;  yet  how  plain  is  the  need  of  one  and 
how  high,  yes,  highest,  is  the  function.  Here  is  a  division  of 
labor  that  I  like  not :  a  man  must  sacrifice  his  manhood  for  the 
social  good.     Something  is  wrong ;  I  see  not  what." 


158  THE  PROBLEM 

Here  we  have  stated  in  prose  the  question  or  problem 
which  he  put  into  poetic  form  a  year  later  (November 
10,  1839)  in  The  Problem.  The  inference  is  that  one 
cannot  be  wholly  sincere  and  independent  in  his  thinking 
if  he  is  circumscribed  by  the  creeds,  rituals,  forms  and 
ceremonials  of  sectarianism.  The  only  creed  to  which 
Emerson  subscribed  was  stated  by  him  in  these  words: 
"I  believe  in  the  still  small  voice;  and  that  voice  is 
Christ  within  me."  No  priest  or  bishop  or  council  had 
any  authority  to  tell  him  what  to  believe,  or  what  man- 
ner of  worship  to  follow. 

Holding  this  opinion,  he  points  out  in  The  Prohlem 
the  masterpieces  of  the  world 's  thought  in  art  and  archi- 
tecture and  literature,  and  declares  that  they  all  grew 
out  of  a  deep  sincerity  and  an  absolute  devotion  to  the 
voice  within.  The  work  of  Phidias  the  Greek  sculptor, 
the  old  Greek  and  Roman  oracles,  the  Bible,  the  national 
litanies,  St.  Peter's  Cathedral  at  Rome,  the  Parthenon, 
the  Pyramids,  the  great  English  abbeys,  the  law  of 
Moses,  were  all  the  results  of  that  sincerity,  in  harmony 
with  "the  vast  soul  that  o'er  him  planned."  Every 
one  of  these  great  things  is  as  natural  as  the  grass  or 
the  woodbird's  nest.  Vanity,  cunning,  cleverness  had  no 
part  in  them.  They  came  out  of  the  heart  of  nature; 
they  grew  out  of  the  deepest  instincts  of  the  race.  And 
because  they  so  originated  and  so  grew  they  still  inspire 
mankind  —  the  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken  is  still  the 
law  of  the  world,  and  the  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told  is 
still  a  part  of  the  thought  of  the  human  race. 

After  meeting  Carlyle,  Emerson  wrote,  "The  comfort 
of  meeting  a  man  of  geniusi  is  that  he  speaks  sincerely"; 


THE  PROBLEM  159 

and  he  found  this  element  of  sincerity  to  be  the  chief 
characteristic  of  every  great  work  of  genius  —  always 
and  everywhere  associated  with  what  he  called  the  Over- 
Soul,  or  the  Spirit  of  the  Universe,  or  God. 

His  son,  Edward  "Waldo  Emerson,  in  the  notes  to  the 
Centenary  Edition  of  Emerson's  Works,  refers  to  the 
following  passages  from  the  Essays  as  bearing  upon  The 
Problem: 

"Every  genuine  work  of  art  has  as  much  reason  for  being  as 
earth  and  sun."  —  Society  and  Solitude. 

"Santa  Croce  [a  beautiful  church  in  Florence]  and  the  Dome 
of  St.  Peter's  are  lame  copies  after  a  divine  model."  —  Essay  on 
History. 

"Above  his  will  [the  artist's]  and  out  of  his  sight  he  is  necessi- 
tated by  the  air  he  breathes  and  the  idea  on  which  he  and  his 
contemporaries  live  and  toil,  to  share  the  manners  of  his  times, 
without  knowing  what  that  manner  is.  Now  that  which  is  in- 
evitable in  the  work  has  a  higher  charm  than  individual  talent  can 
ever  give,  inasmuch  as  the  artist's  pen  or  chisel  seems  to  have  been 
held  and  guided  by  a  gigantic  hand  to  inscribe  a  line  in  the  history 
of  the  human  race.  This  circumstance  gives  a  value  to  the  Egyp- 
tian hieroglyphics,  to  the  Indian,  Chinese  and  Mexican  idols,  how- 
ever gross  and  shapeless.  They  denote  the  height  of  the  human 
soul  in  that  hour,  and  were  not  fantastic,  but  sprung  from  a  neces- 
sity as  deep  as  the  world." — Essay  on  Art. 

Notice  the  wide  scope  of  illustrations  used  in  The 
Problem  of  works  that  all  come  under  Emerson's  law  of 
sincerity  and  devotion.  We  find  here  Greek  art,  pagan 
oracles,  the  Bible,  Catholic  architecture,  Greek  archi- 
tecture, Egyptian  construction,  and  English  architec- 
ture. They  serve  not  only  to  illustrate  the  universality 
of  the  principle  announced,  but  they  serve  equally  well 
to  illustrate  the  breadth  of  Emerson's  interests  and 
sympathies. 


160  THE  PROBLEM 


THE  PROBLEM 


I  like  a  church ;  I  like  a  cowl  ; 

I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul ; 

And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 

Fall  like  sweet  strains,  or  pensive  smiles; 

Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see  5 

"Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 
Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 

His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought;  10 

Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 

The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle; 

Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 

The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old ; 

The  litanies  of  nations  came,  15 

Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame, 

Up  from  the  burning  core  below,  — 

The  canticles  of  love  and  woe ; 


Vest   Uine  7)  —  Testments,  ecclesiastical  robes. 

Phidias  (10)  — the  most  famous  sculptor  of  the  ancient  Greeks. 

His  atcful  Jove  (10)  — the  masterpiece  of  Phidias,  a  colossal  statue 
of  the  god  of  war,  executed  for  a  temple  at  Olympia.  in  Greece. 

Delphic  oracle  (12) — a  celebrated  oracle  of  Apoflo  at  Delphi  on 
the  slope  of  Mt.  Parnassus.  The  priestess  who  delivered  the  oracle  was 
at  first  always  a  young  maiden  but  later  always  a  woman  not  younger 
than  fifty,  usually  selected  from  some  family  of  poor  country  people. 
The  oracle  was  implicitly  believed  in  as  being  from  Apollo. 

lAtanies   (15)  — forms  of  public  prayer. 

Canticles   (18) — songs  or  liymns. 


THE  PROBLEM  161 

The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome, 

And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome,  20 

Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity ; 

Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free ; 

He  builded  better  than  he  knew ;  — 

The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Know  'st  thou  what  wove  yon  woodbird  's  nest        25 
Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast? 
Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 
Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell  ? 
Or  how  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 
,  To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads  ?  30 

Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 
Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 
Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 


Peter's  dome  (19) — the  cathedral  of  St.  Peter's  In  Rome;  It  Is 
not  only  the  chief  glory  of  modern  Rome  but  it  is  the  most  magnifi- 
cent modern  structure  in  the  world.  The  most  celebrated  architects 
of  the  time  were  engaged  upon  it,  among  them  being  Raphael, 
Michael  Angelo  and  Bernini.  Just  whose  hand  "rounded  Peter's  dome" 
is  uncertain ;  probably  the  architect  Delia  Porta.  This  matchless  dome 
is  440  feet  high,  the  building  covers  an  area  of  240,000  square  feet, 
required  176  years  to  build,  and  cost  about  seventy  millions  of  dol- 
lars, a  sum  which  would  be  far  greater  to-day. 

The  aisles  of  Christian  Rome  (20)  —  in  addition  to  St.  Peter's  there 
are  several  hundred  other  chui'ches  in  Rome,  most  of  them  of  marvelous 
beauty  of  architecture  and  adornment,  and  erected  during  the  cen- 
turies of  the  greatest  religious  zeal.  No  one  can  look  upon  them  and 
not  agree  with  Emerson's  statement  that  their  builders  "wrought  In 
a  sad  sincerity." 

These  holy  piles  (31)  —  the  great  churches  in  Rome. 

The  Parthenon  (33) — the  temple  of  Athena  at  Athens,  a  great 
Doric  temple,  the  most  perfect  specimen  of  Greek  architecture. 
Phidias  superintended  its  construction.  It  is  now  in  a  ruined  con- 
dition, caused  by  the  explosion  of  a  bomb  in  1687  while  the  Turks 
were   using  it  as   a   magazine. 


162  THE  PROBLEM 

As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone ; 

And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids,  35 

To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids ; 

O'er  England's  abbeys  bends  the  sky, 

As  on  its  friends,  with  kindred  eye; 

For,  out  of  Thought 's  interior  sphere, 

These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air ;  40 

And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 

Adopted  them  into  her  race, 

And  granted  them  an  equal  date 

With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass;  45 

Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 

The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 

To  the  vast  soul  that  o  'er  him  planned ; 

And  the  same  power  that  reared  the  shrine, 

Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within.  50 

Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 

Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 

Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs. 

And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 

The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken  55 

Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken ; 


England's  Ahbcys  (37) — the  most  boautiful  and  majpstic  build- 
ings in  England  are  its  abbeys  and  cathedrals.  St.  Paul's,  West- 
minster, Canterbury,  York,  Gloucester,  Wells,  Chester,  and  other  cath- 
edrals, and  the  abbey  ruins  at  Melrose  and  at  Tintern  seem  indeed 
to  fulfill  Emerson's  description.  They  are  as  true  to  nature  as  are 
the  rivers  and  the  hills. 

Pentecost  (51)  — the  day  of  the  descent  of  the  Holy  Ghost  on  the 
disciples.    It  appeared  like  a  tongue  of  fire. 


THE  PROBLEM  163 

The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 

In  groves  of  oak,  or  fanes  of  gold, 

Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 

Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind.  60 

One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 

The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 

I  know  what  say  the  fathers  wise,  — 

The  Book  itself  before  me  lies. 

Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine,  65 

And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 

The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 

Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  divines. 

His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 

I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear ;  70 

And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 

I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 

^ — Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


Sibyls  (57)  —  the  name  given  to  certain  inspired  proplietesses  of 
antiquity.  There  were  ten  of  them,  the  Cumean  sibyl  being  the  most 
celebrated. 

Old  Chrysostom  (65)  — John  of  Antioch,  Bishop  of  Constantinople. 
Two  hundred  years  after  his  death  the  Ecumenical  Council  gave  him 
the  name  Chrysostom,  or  Golden  Mouth. 

Taylor  (68)  — Jeremy  Taylor,  author  of  Holy  Living  and  Holy  Dying. 
Emerson  says  in  his  journal :  "I  have  thought  him  a  Christian  Plato ; 
so  rich  and  great  was  his  philosophy." 


Ode  to  the  West  Wind 


165 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND  167 


ODE    TO    THE   WEST    WIND 

Shelley  was  reformer  and  prophet  as  well  as  poet.  It 
is  now  a  hundred  years  since  he  was  expelled  from  Uni- 
versity College,  Oxford,  for  writing  a  boyish  tract  with 
a  foolish  and  evil  title;  to-day  the  room  he  occupied  is 
the  "Shelley  Lecture  Room,"  and  under  a  great  glass 
dome  near  by  in  the  same  college  rests  the  exquisite  white 
marble  efRgy  of  his  slight  figure  in  naked  purity  —  the 
most  beautiful  memorial  in  Oxford.  A  little  distance 
away  among  the  priceless  treasures  of  the  Bodleian 
Library  are  a  curl  of  his  fair  hair,  his  watch,  his  bunch 
of  seals,  the  little  volume  of  Sophocles  which  he  held  in 
his  hand  when  he  was  drowned  in  the  Gulf  of  Spezzia, 
and  other  little  personal  belongings.  When  his  ashes 
were  laid  by  the  Aurelian  wall  in  the  Protestant  ceme- 
tery at  Rome,  one  of  the  saddest  and  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  spots  in  all  the  world,  there  were  few  or  none 
who  dreamed  that  Oxford  would  take  his  memory  into 
its  bosom  and  that  the  world  would  recognize  him  as  the 
greatest  of  all  lyric  poets  and  as  a  reformer  whose  voice 
was  the  voice  of  a  coming  dawn.  Slavery  of  every  sort 
he  hated  with  a  fiery  hatred ;  freedom  of  service,  freedom 
of  worship,  freedom  of  thought,  freedom  of  speech,  — 
freedom  of  man  in  the  widest  sense  —  and  universal 
charity,  he  loved  with  a  flaming  love.  As  Oxford  has 
changed  its  attitude  toward  him  personally  from  one  of 
persecution  to  one  of  reverence,  so  the  world  has  come 
to  adopt  most  of  his  principles  as  the  shibboleth  of 
twentieth-century  regeneration  for  mankind;  and  from 


16S  ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

his  obscure  grave  by  the  Roman  wall  his  voice  is  heard 
around  the  world. 

He  wrote  "as  the  prophet  of  liberty,  equality,  frater- 
nity, and  a  Golden  Age";  but  he  also  wrote  as  the  poet 
of  his  own  heart,  his  own  soul.  These  two  elements  are 
combined  in  perfect  fusion  in  the  Ode  to  the  West  Wind. 
"The  poem,"  as  Professor  Dowden  saj'-s,  "is  the  clarion 
cry  of  hope  in  the  presence  of  tumultuous  ruin  and  in- 
evitable decay, ' '  but  the  music  of  this  hope  for  humanity 
is  made  on  the  lyre  of  his  personal  emotions  and  the 
passion  of  his  own  heart.  The  poem  was  written  one 
October  day  in  a  wood  on  the  banks  of  the  Arno  near 
Florence  when  a  tempestuous  wind  was  sweeping  the 
Cisalpine  region  and  gathering  the  clouds  for  a  terrific 
storm,  and  thunder  and  lightning,  hail  and  rain.  The 
theme  of  the  poem  at  the  beginning  is  the  Avind  as  de- 
stroyer and  preserver,  but  the  thought  of  the  wind  as  a 
destroyer  is  exhausted  as  the  poem  proceeds  and  its 
character  as  a  preserver  continues  to  the  last  and  tri- 
umphs in  the  splendid  imagery  and  prophecy  of  the  clos- 
ing lines. 

In  the  first  stanza  he  apostrophizes  the  wind  as  the 
unseen  power  that  drives  before  it  the  stricken  leaves, 
yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red ;  but  it  also 
carries  the  winged  seeds  to  their  wintry  graves  where 
they  are  preserved  until  the  wind  of  spring  blows  over 
the  warm  earth,  brings  them  to  life  again,  and  plain  and 
hill  are  filled  with  sweet  buds  like  flocks  that  feed  in  air. 

In  the  second  stanza  the  theme  is  cai-ried  on  but  new 
images  are  introduced.  He  sees  the  wind  as  a  stream 
sweeping  through  the  sky  carrying  on  its  surface  clouds 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND  169 

like  decaying  leaves.  Then  the  image,  still  true  to  the 
central  theme,  changes  again,  and  he  conceives  of  the 
spreading,  winding,  ever-changing  clouds  as  the  hair  of 
some  Maenad  floating  on  the  wind ;  they  are  the  locks  of 
the  approaching  storm.  He  sees  in  the  sky  the  same  thing 
he  saw  in  the  wood.  The  wind  is  still  the  destroyer; 
and  the  second  stanza  closes  with  another  aspect  of  the 
same  theme:  the  wind  as  the  dirge  of  the  dying  year 
of  which  the  approaching  night  is  to  be  the  dome  of  a 
vast  sepulchre. 

In  the  third  stanza  the  wind  passes  from  the  earth  and 
the  sky  to  the  sea,  rousing  by  its  terrors  the  sleeping 
Mediterranean,  cleaving  the  Atlantic  into  chasms  for 
its  pathway,  and  disturbing  the  plants  in  ocean's  bed. 
In  a  note  Shelley  says :  ' '  The  phenomenon  alluded  to  at 
the  conclusion  of  the  third  stanza  is  well  known  to  natu- 
ralists. The  vegetation  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  of  rivers, 
and  of  lakes,  sympathizes  with  that  of  the  land  in  the 
change  of  seasons,  and  is  consequently  influenced  by  the 
winds  which  announce  it."  Notice  in  this  stanza  the 
exquisite  picture  of  the  old  moss-grown  and  flower- 
covered  palaces  and  towers  reflected  in  the  still  waters 
of  the  Mediterranean.  No  artist  ever  painted  a  truer 
picture. 

In  stanza  four  he  unites  himself  with  leaf  and  cloud 
and  wave,  thus  gathering  up  in  order  all  of  the  images 
that  have  gone  before  and  continuing  the  theme.  But 
the  thought  of  the  wind  as  a  destroyer  is  not  mentioned 
again,  but  only  as  a  preserver  of  the  seeds  of  life  and 
truth.  He,  too,  like  the  wind,  was  "tameless,  and  swift, 
and  proud,"  but  brutal  persecution  and  the  sadness  of 


170  ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

his  heart  had  driven'him  upon  the  thorns  of  life.  Stanza 
four  carries  the  theme  over  from  the  sphere  of  nature  to 
the  sphere  of  the  human  race,  with  Shelley  as  the  agent. 
It  is  not  a  side  issue,  but  an  essential  step  in  the  organic 
unity  of  the  poem. 

In  the  closing  stanza  the  theme  reverts  to  the  original 
image  of  the  wind  in  the  wood,  but  as  a  preserver  and 
not  as  a  destroyer ;  and  a  new  but  kindred  image,  that  of 
the  play  of  the  wind  upon  a  dying  fire,  is  introduced. 
His  passionate  cry  is  that  his  words  and  thoughts  may  be 
scattered  among  mankind  to  be  quickened  in  due  time 
in  a  more  favoring  soil  into  the  fruits  and  flowers  of  a 
New  Day  for  all  the  race ;  and  may  the  voice  of  the  wind 
be  the  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  of  that  New  Day!  As 
Stopford  Brooke  says:  ''The  last  thought  has  now  been 
reached,  the  last  realm  over  which  the  wind  is  sweeping. 
It  has  passed  through  the  forests  of  earth,  through  the 
clouds  of  the  sky,  into  the  depths  of  ocean,  through  the 
woods  and  sky  and  ocean  of  Shelley 's  heart ;  and  then,  at 
the  very  point  and  climax  of  emotion,  it  leaves  himself 
and  sweeps  through  all  mankind,  bearing  away  with  it 
dead  things  and  the  seeds  of  new.  Out  of  the  personal 
Shelley  passes  into  the  universal,  and  at  that  moment  the 
future  opened  to  him.  Beyond  the  storm,  beyond  the 
winter  it  ushers  in,  he  sees  the  new  awakened  world,  the 
birth  of  all  the  seeds,  the  outburst  as  of  a  sx)ring  in 
humanity ; 

O  Wind. 
If  winter  comes,  can  spring  be  far  behind? 

This  is  the  lyric  of  lyrics.    It  is  the  hymn  of  our  own 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND  171 

world.    It  ought  to  be  set  to  music  by  a  great  musician, 
but  he  should  have  the  genius  of  Beethoven." 


ANALYSIS 

I.  The   Wind   is   conceived   as    both   destroyer  and   preserver, 
lines  1-14 

1.  The  dead  leaves  are  driven  before  it  (1-5). 

2.  And  the  seeds  of  future  life  (5-14). 

11.  The  idea  of  the  Wind  as  destroyer  continued  (15-28). 

1.  The  Wind  compared  to  a  stream  (15). 

2.  And  the  clouds  like  dead  leaves  (16-17). 

3.  Or  like  messengers  of  the  rain  and  lightning  (18). 

4.  Or  like   a  fierce  Maenad's  hair    (20-23)    spread   on   the 

surface  of  the  wind-stream    (15-23). 

5.  The  Wind  compared  to  a  dying  year  (23-24). 

6.  And  the  night  to  its  vast  sepulchre  (24-28). 

III.  The  idea  of  the  Wind  as  destroyer  continued  (29-42). 

1.  It  passes  over  the  Mediterranean  and  destroys  the  images 

on  its  surface   (29-36). 

2.  It  passes  over  the  Atlantic  and  the  vegetation  in  ocean's 

bed  trembles  with  fear  (36-42). 

IV.  The  theme  is  carried  over  from  nature  to  the  poet's  life  by 

means  of  the  figures  of  leaf,  cloud,  and  wave  already 
used    (43-56). 
V.  The  theme  widens  to  include  all  humanity,  with  the  idea  of  the 
Wind  as  preserver  (56-70). 

1.  The  poet  like  a  lyre  making  music  for  mankind   (56-61). 

2.  His  thoughts  scattered  to  quicken  new  ideas    (63-64). 

3.  Or  like  sparks  among  mankind  (65-67). 

4.  His  lips  like  a  trumpet  of  hope  and  prophecy  of  a  new 

dawn  for  the  human  race  (68-70). 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 
1 

O,  Wild  "West  "Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing. 


172  ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 

Pestilence-stricken  multitudes:  0,  Thou,  5 

"Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low. 

Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o  'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill  10 

(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill : 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver ;  hear,  O  hear ! 


Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky 's 

commotion,  15 

Loose  clouds  like  earth 's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  heaven  and  ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning :  there  are  spread 

On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head  20 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 
Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 

Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre,  25 


anrjela  {line  18)  —  messengers.    This  is  the  original  meaning  of  tlie 
word. 

fierce  Maenad  (21)  —  a  frenzied  nympli  in  Greeit  mythology. 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND;  173 

Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst :  0,  hear  I 

3 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 

The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay,  30 

Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae  's  bay, 

And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave 's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  Avith  azure  moss  and  flowers  35 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them !  Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic 's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 

The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know  40 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  grey  with  fear. 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves :  0,  hear ! 

4 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  vnih  thee ; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share  45 


congregated  might  of  vapours  (26  and  27)  — "this  brave  o'er-hanging 
firmament  ....  appears  no  other  thing  to  me  than  a  foul  and 
pestilent  congregation  of  vapors."  —  Hamlet,  Act  III,  scene  2,  line 
311. 

Baiae  (32)  —  not  far  from  Naples. 


174  ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thon,  0,  uncontrollable!    If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed  50 

Scarce  seemed  a  vision ;  I  would  ne  'er  have  striven 


As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 

Oh !  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life !    I  bleed ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed  55 

One  too  like  thee :  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 

What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 


60 


Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone. 

Sweet  though  in  sadness.    Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce. 
My  spirit !    Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one ! 


Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 

Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth ! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse,  65 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND  175 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 

Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words-  among  mankind ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy !    0  Wind, 

If  winter  comes,  can  spring  be  far  behind  ?  70 

—  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


The  Cloud 


177 


THE  CLOUD  179 


THE    CLOUD 

To  float  with  the  Cloud  on  the  journey  which  Shelley 
taljes  us  requires  that  the  imagination  shall  be  well  under 
control,  but  so  does  the  reading  of  any  genuine  poem ; 
and  the  control  of  the  imagination  can  be  cultivated  just 
as  the  control  of  the  reasoning  powers  or  of  the  memory 
can  be  cultivated.  The  number  of  pictures  in  The  Cloud 
is  amazing,  and  so  is  the  rapidity  with  which  they  follow 
one  another ;  yet  it  is  not  a  kaleidoscopic  view  which  one 
gets,  but  a  series  of  clear  and  distinct  images,  all  con- 
nected in  the  most  vital  manner  with  the  central  concep- 
tion of  the  poem.  The  first  stanza  has  five  complete  pic- 
tures, the  second  two,  the  third  two,  the  fourth  one,  the 
fifth  four,  the  sixth  two.  But  each  of  these  complete  pic- 
tures is  really  a  group  of  smaller  pictures,  —  for  ex- 
ample, the  first  picture  in  the  second  stanza  {lines  13-16) 
is  made  up  of  three  distinct  pictures,  and  the  single 
group  comprising  the  fourth  stanza  is  composed  of  six 
pictures.  In  the  opening  line  of  the  poem  .there  are  the 
three  pictures  represented  by  the  Cloud,  the  showers, 
and  the  thirsting  flowers,  but  these  three  are  grouped  in 
one,  and  the  idea  is  made  complete  by  the  second  line,  in 
which  we  see  another  picture  sho'wang  the  vapor  arising 
from  sea  and  river  to  form  the  Cloud.  This  process  of 
grouping  is  carried  on  throughout  the  poem. 

Lines  three  and  four  give  us  an  exquisite  miniature  of 
leaves  in  the  perfect  calm  of  noonday,  protected  from  the 
sun  by  the  Cloud.  Lines  5-8  open  up  the  whole  expanse 
of  the  earth's  orbit  and  we  hear  the  twitter  of  the  morn- 


180  THE  CLOUD 

ing  birds  in  the  dewy  groves  as  they  are  rocked  on  the 
bosom  of  mother  earth  while  she  sweeps  about  the  sun. 
The  stauza  closes  with  a  storm  in  which  the  fields  are 
white  with  sleet  and  hail,  the  hoarse  laugh  of  the  thunder  is 
heard  and  the  Cloud  finally  dissolves  in  a  downpour  of  rain. 

In  the  second  stanza  the  seasons  have  changed,  the 
great  mountain  pines  are  groaning  under  the  weight  of 
snow,  and  the  Cloud  hangs  about  the  top  of  the  moimtain 
in  the  arms  of  the  blast.  The  figure  changes  again :  the 
lightning  in  its  cloudy  watch-tower  acts  as  pilot,  and 
the  thunder  roars  like  a  giant  of  the  elder  world.  Above 
the  Cloud  the  sky  is  blue  and  smiling,  while  the  lightning, 
lured  by  the  love  of  some  mysterious  but  kindred  spirit 
in  the  great  deep,  is  guiding  the  Cloud  at  his  will. 

There  are  two  pictures  in  the  third  stanza:  one  may 
be  called  "Morning"  and  the  other  "Evening."  The 
first  is  a  picture  of  sunrise,  blood-red,  with  meteor  eyes, 
and  with  streamers  like  burning  plumes  —  a  sunrise  rid- 
ing up  out  of  the  rim  of  the  world  on  the  back  of  dark 
drifting  Clouds,  while  the  morning  star  stands  lustreless 
in  the  light  of  breaking  day.  It  is  a  sunrise  such  as 
Turner  might  have  painted.  But  not  content  with  draw- 
ing the  scene  once,  Shelley  makes  another  picture  and 
compares  the  sunrise  on  the  rolling  Clouds  to  an  eagle 
on  the  top  of  an  earthquake-shaken  mountain  crag.  In 
the  "Evening"  picture  the  Cloud  hangs  like  a  speck  in 
the  crimson  glow  of  the  uttermost  west,  as  still  as  a  dove 
upon  her  nest. 

Stanza  4  may  be  called  "Moonlight."  It  is  midnight, 
the  sky  is  overcast  with  dry  fleecy  Clouds,  a  light  breeze 
is  blowing,  the  moon  is  at  the  full.    To  the  watcher  below 


THE  CLOUD  181 

the  moon  seems  to  break  through  and  in  and  out  of  the 
fleecy  Clouds,  and  with  every  widening  of  the  rift  the 
stars  fly  out  like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees.  The  moon  and 
the  stars  are  reflected  in  the  waters  below  until  the  waters 
seem  to  be  paved  in  their  silver  and  gold ;  and  the  w^aters 
themselves  appear  like  strips  of  the  blue  sky  fallen 
through  the  rifts  in  the  Cloud.  How  perfect  the  picture 
is,  but  how  different  from  the  picture  of  the  morning  or 
the  picture  of  the  sunset  hour.  And  yet,  no  matter  how 
the  pictures  may  vary,  the  central  theme  of  the  Cloud 
dominates  them  all. 

Stanza  5  presents  a  series  of  cloud-pictures  with  great 
rapidity.  First  there  is  a  shining  Cloud  around  the 
sun,  followed  by  a  ring  around  the  moon.  Then  the 
whirlwind  begins  to  blow,  the  stars  seem  to  reel  and  swim 
among  the  Clouds,  and  the  mountains  and  volcanoes 
are  wrapped  in  their  mist.  Then  the  whole  heavens,  from 
horizon  to  horizon,  are  covered  with  a  pall,  upheld  by 
the  mountains,  as  columns  support  a  roof.  At  last  the 
storm  is  over,  the  rainbow  swings  across  space  as  the 
triumphal  arch  of  the  Cloud  —  the  rainbow  woven  by 
the  sun  ("the  sphere-fire")  while  the  moist  earth  is 
laughing  below. 

The  closing  stanza  is  the  poetic,  but  thoroughly  scien- 
tific, statement  of  the  origin  and  nature  of  the  Cloud. 
It  is  born  of  sun  and  water,  it  is  nursed  in  the  sky,  it 
changes  its  form  but  it  cannot  die,  for  it  goes  through 
the  same  cycle  of  changes  forever. 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  upbuild  it  again. 


182  THE  CLOUD 

Even  here  we  have  a  remarkable  number  of  figures 
and  images  combining  to  build  up  the  blue  dome  of 
heaven  (the  cenotaph  of  the  Cloud),  and  tear  it  down 
again. 

But  it  is  not  enough  to  see  all  of  these  pictures  one  by 
one  with  the  mind's  eye,  no  matter  how  clearly,  though 
this  is  the  first  essential.  To  read  The  Cloud  with  some- 
thing of  the  feeling  in  which  it  was  written  one  must  con- 
ceive of  it  all  as  a  single  picture,  a  great  canvas,  in  which 
the  spirit  of  the  Cloud  is  moving  like  a  thing  alive,  like 
a  god  of  the  old  pagan  world;  and  the  reader's  imagina- 
tion must  so  fuse  all  of  the  separate  parts  in  the  glow 
of  its  flame  that  they  will  make  a  harmonious  whole 
"without  rent  or  seam  or  any  such  thing."  The  Cloud 
is  in  no  sense  a  descriptive  poem  —  it  is  vastly  more  and 
different.  It  is  akin  to  the  nature-myths  of  the  old  Greek 
world.  The  Cloud  is  represented  as  an  eternal  primeval 
force  alive  with  energy  and  activity  and  manifesting 
itself  in  myriad  forms  and  colors.  This  is  the  central 
conception  or  theme  of  the  poem ;  it  vitalizes  every  line, 
gives  significance  to  every  image,  and  lends  majesty  and 
power  to  the  whole. 


THE  CI.OUD 
1 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 


THE  CLOUD  183 

From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken  5 

The  sweet  birds  every  one, 
"When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother 's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under,  10 

And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 


I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white,  15 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers, 

Lightning,  my  pilot,  sits ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ;  20 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills,  25 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.  30 


their  mother's  breast  {Une  7)  r— -the  earth. 
genii  (23)  —  spirits. 


1S4  THE  CLOUD 


The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead ; 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag,  35 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings, 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath. 

Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love,  40 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depths  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  my  airy  nest. 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 


That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden  45 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Wliich  only  the  angels  hear,  50 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 


Hunvuine  (31) — blood-red. 
rack  (33)  — dark  drifting  clouds. 

vnth  white  fire  laden   (4.5)  — Of  coiirsp,  the  moon  has  no  "Are"  of 
Its  own  ;  Its  light  is  reflected  from  the  eun. 


THE    CLOUD  185 

Wlien  I  wideu  the  rent  of  my  wind-built  tent,  55 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high. 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 


I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone. 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ;  60 

The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape. 

Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof,  65 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair. 

Is  the  million-coloured  bow :  70 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colours  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 


I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores ;  75 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain  when  with  never  a  stain. 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  wdth  their  convex  gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  80 


these  (58)  —  the  stars. 


1S6  THE    CLOUD 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  upbuild  it  again. 

—  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


cenotaph  (81)  — amcmpty  tomb. 

Concerning  lines  17-30,  Mr.  W.  J.  Alexander  says: 
"What  natural  phenomenon  is  described  in  the  poetical 
language  of  these  lines  is  by  no  means  clear.  Since  the 
pilot  is  the  lightning,  Shelley  may,  perhaps,  have  thought 
that  the  motion  of  clouds  is  influenced  by  electric  forces 
existing  in  the  earth,  and  may  represent  these  forces  by 
'genii.'  The  pilot  moves  the  cloud  over  that  part  of  the 
earth  where  he  dreams  the  spirit  (the  electric  force)  re- 
mains." 


Ode  to   a  Nightingale 


187 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE  189 


ODE    TO   A   NIGHTINGALE 

The  great  odes  of  Keats  are  six  in  number :  Ode  to  a 
Nightingale,  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,  Ode  to  Psyche,  To 
Autumn,  Ode  on  Melancholy,  and  Ode  on  Indolence  — 
all  written  between  the  spring  of  1819  and  the  autumn 
of  that  year.  This  was  the  period  of  his  best  work,  and 
these  odes  are  unequaled  in  English  literature.  Keats 
was  then  twenty-four  years  of  age. 

Swinburne  thus  estimates  the  group : 

"Of  these  perhaps  the  two  nearest  to  absolute  perfection,  to 
the  triumphant  achievement  and  accomplishment  of  the  very  ut- 
most beauty  possible  to  human  words,  may  be  that  To  Autumn 
and  that  On  a  Grecian  Urn;  the  most  radiant,  fervent,  and 
musical  is  that  To  a  Nightingale;  the  most  pictorial,  and  perhaps 
the  tenderest  in  its  ardor  of  passionate  fancy,  is  that  To  Psyche; 
the  subtlest  in  sweetness  of  thought  and  feeling  is  that  On  Melan- 
choly. Greater  lyrical  poetry  the  world  may  have  seen  than  any 
that  is  in  these ;  lovelier  it  surely  has  never  seen,  nor  ever  can  it 
possibly  see." 

The  Ode  Ma  Nightingale  is  fhe  most  personal  of  them 
all.  Mr.  Robert  Bridges,  the  present  Poet  Laureate, 
Bays  of  it:  *'I  could  not  name  an  English  poem  of  the 
same  length  which  contains  so  much  beauty  as  this  ode. ' ' 

It  was  in  May  of  1819  that  this  poem  was  written. 
Keats  was  residing  at  Hampstead  with  his  friend  Charles 
Armitage  Brown,  and  was  in  deep  grief  over  the  recent 
death  of  his  brother  Tom,  and  over  the  knowledge  of 
his  own  fatal  illness  with  consumption,  the  family  dis- 
ease, of  which  he  himself  died  two  years  later ;  moreover 
his  emotions  were  deeply  stirred  with  his  love  for  Fanny 
Brawne  —  a  love  which  he  realized  his  physical  condi- 


190  ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

tion  made  hopeless.  Add  to  these  things  the  fact  that 
the  Reviewers  were  pouring  their  brutal  abuse  upon  his 
head,  and  some  idea  may  be  formed  of  the  state  of  his 
sensitive  but  manly  soul.  "One  morning,"  says  Brown, 
"he  took  his  chair  from  the  breakfast  table  to  the  grass- 
plot  under  a  plum  (where  a  nightingale  made  its  nest) 
where  he  sat  for  two  or  three  hours.  "When  he  came 
into  the  house,  I  perceived  he  had  some  scraps  of  paper 
in  his  hand,  and  these  he  was  quickly  thrusting  behind 
the  books.  jOn  inquiry,  I  found  these  scraps,  four  or 
five  in  number,  contained  his  poetic  feeling  on  the  song 
of  our  nightingale.  The  writing  was  not  well  legible; 
and  it  was  difficult  to  arrange  the  stanzas  on  so  many 
scraps.  With  his  assistance  I  succeeded,  and  this  was 
his  Ode  to  a  Nightingale." 

The  present  occupants  of  the  house  inform  me  that 
it  was  a  large  plane-tree  (the  American  sycamore)  under 
which  Keats  wrote  the  poem.  This  tree  still  stands  in  the 
yard,  and  nearly  every  year  a  nightingale  builds  her  nest 
in  it.  Perhaps  Brown  wrote  plane  and  the  printer  made 
it  plum. 

Concerning  the  English  nightingale,  Mr.  Arthur  C. 
Downer,  of  Oxford  University,  says : 

"April  is  the  month  in  which  the  nightinprale  returns  from 
North-west  Africa,  and  upon  its  reappearance  in  this  country  it 
seems  filled  with  joy.  It  dwells  in  woods  and  groves  near  to 
waters,  such  woods  as  are  still  found  at  TIampstead.  Hour  by 
hour,  and  day  after  day,  the  bird  pours  forth  its  flood  of  song,  and 
in  the  night  its  voice  is  often  heard  more  rich  and  striking,  because 
of  the  hush  of  all  competing  sounds." 

The  music  of  the  nightingale  is  thus  analyzed  by  Mr. 
Robert  Bridges : 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE  191 

"The  song  of  the  nightingale  is,  to  the  hearer,  full  of  assertion, 
promise,  and  cheerful  expectancj',  and  of  pleading  and  tender  pas- 
eiouate  overflowing  in  long  drawn-out  notes,  interspersed  with  plenty 
of  playfulness  and  conscious  exhibition  of  musical  skill.  What- 
ever pain  or  sorrow  may  be  expressed  by  it,  it  is  idealized  —  that 
is,  it  is  not  the  sorrow  of  a  sufferer  but  the  perfect  expression  of 
sorrow  by  an  artist,  who  must  have  felt,  but  is  not  feeling ;  and 
the  ecstasy  of  the  nightingale  is  stronger  than  its  sorrow,  although 
different  hearers  may  be  differently  affected  according  to  their 
moods." 

Keats  in  a  sad  mood  gave  it  its  immortal  interpreta- 
tion. In  studying  the  poem  the  mistake  should  not  be 
made  of  thinking  it  was  the  particular  nightingale  he 
had  heard  that  morning  singing  in  the  Hampstead  gar- 
den that  he  addresses  his  ode  to,  but  as  Palgrave  says,  ' '  a 
type  of  the  race  imagined  as  singing  in  some  far-off  scene 
of  woodland  mystery  and  beauty.  Thither  he  sighs  to 
follow  her." 

The  stages  of  his  emotion  are  easy  to  follow.  He 
begins  with  a  description  of  the  effect  produced  upon  him 
by  the  song:  it  is  like  that  of  an  opiate.  This  effect  is 
realized  through  his  being  "too  happy  in  thy  happi- 
ness," Keats  was  remarkably  sensitive  to  all  sweet 
sights  and  sounds ;  so  sensitive  that  they  sometimes  made 
him  tremble  and  weep  for  joy.  On  one  occasion  he  was 
so  overcome  by  the  influence  of  a  beautiful  scene  in 
nature  that  he  was  unable  to  rise  from  his  seat  on  the 
ground.  Perhaps  the  soul  of  no  other  English  poet  was 
ever  so  perfectly  attuned  to  the  harmony  of  exquisite 
sights  and  sounds.  The  statement  in  the  opening  stanza 
is  therefore  doubtless  literally  true. 

He  follows  this  in  the  next  two  stanzas  with  the  wish 
for  the  aid  of  some  draught  of  vintage  in  order  that  he 
may  forget  his  own  sad  estate  and  join  in  the  joy  of  the 


192  ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

happy  songster — forget  "the  weariness,  the  fever,  and 
the  fret"  with  which  his  soul  at  that  moment  was  so 
heavy.    The  line 

"Where  youth  grows  pale  and  spectrc-thiu  aud  dies"' 
doubtless  has  reference  to  the  death  of  his  brother  Tom, 
of  consumption.  The  sadness  of  the  lines  in  the  third 
stanza  is  equalled  only  by  their  beauty.  In  writing 
about  his  sister  a  little  later  Keats  said :  "It  runs  in  my 
head  that  we  shall  all  die  young, ' ' 

—  "beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes 

Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  tomorrorw." 

But  he  rejects  the  thought  of  the  need  of  wine  and 
determines  to  fly  with  the  spirit  of  the  nightingale  upon 
the  wings  of  Poesy  —  upon  those  viewless  wings  of  the 
imagination  w^hich  he  possessed  in  such  richness.  And 
so  he  fancies  himself  already  wdth  the  songster;  it  is 
night  and  the  moon  and  stars  are  in  their  glory.  There 
is  no  light  save  that  made  by  them.  Far  above  the 
earth,  he  cannot  see  w^hat  Howers  are  below  him,  but  he 
can  guess  them  all  —  the  hawthorn,  the  violets,  the 
sweetbrier,  the  musk-rose,  and  the  rest  "wherewith  the 
seasonable  month  endows  the  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the 
fruit-tree  wild. ' ' 

Thus,  seeing  but  dimly,  he  listens ;  and  in  his  ecstasy 
he  feels  how  sweet  it  would  be  to  die  thus  at  midnight 
with  no  pain,  while  the  nightingale  is  pouring  forth  its 
soul  in  such  joy  and  with  his  own  soul  in  perfect  har- 
mony with  it. 

The  thought  of  dying  suggests,  by  way.  of  contrast,  the 
immortality  of  the  nightingale  of  which  this  particular 
nightingale  is  the  type.    The  song  he  hears  is  the  same 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE  108 

song  heard  in  ancient  days.  The  individual  dies,  but  the 
song  goes  on  forever  and  forever.  The  song  that  Keats 
heard  a  hundred  years  ago  is  still  heard  in  Hampstead 
Heath.  The  seventh  stanza  is  matchless  in  its  beauty 
and  its  magic  power.  Lovers  of  poetry  agree  that  these 
lines  are  of  extraordinary  loveliness.  "We  read  the 
words, ' '  says  I\Ir.  Downer,  ' '  and  seem  to  behold,  in  high 
romance,  the  shadowy  enchanter's  castle  in  a  kingdom 
by  the  sea,  the  lonely  tower  of  which  encloses  an  im- 
prisoned princess,  held  in  duress ;  and  when  the  rich  full 
note  of  the  nightingale  breaks  upon  the  captive  ear,  she 
throws  open  her  window  to  listen  and  to  look  out  over 
the  wild  waves  for  the  ship  that  shall  bring  the  knight 
of  her  deliverance." 

The  word  "forlorn"  calls  the  poet  back  from  the  far- 
off  days  of  Ruth,  the  magic  casements,  the  faery  lands,  to 
himself  and  his  unhappy  condition.  The  fancy  cheated 
him  for  awhile  and  he  was  away  with  the  nightingale 
through  the  Middle  Ages,  and  Biblical  times,  and  beyond 
perilous  seas,  but  the  spell  is  over.  The  plaintive  anthem 
fades  away  and  is  gone.  "No  more  for  him  the  sweet 
beguilement. " 

ANALYSIS 

I.  The  effect  of  the  Nishtingale's  song,  with  associated  thoughts, 
is  like  that  of  an  opiate.  Lines  1-10. 
II.  The  poet  longs  for  some  draught  of  wine  to  make  him  lose 
himself  and  follow  the  Nightingale  and  forget  the  griefs 
of  life  (11-.30). 
III.  The  need  of  wine  is  rejected,  and  he  follows  on  the  wings  of 
imagination    (31-00). 

1.  The  moon  is  up  but  the  liiht  is  pale  (.3.5-40. 

2.  He  cannot  see  but  can  only  guess  the  flowers  far  below 

him  (41-50). 


194  ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

3.  It  would  be  sweet  to  die  under  such  conditions   (51-60). 
rV.  The  deathless  character  of  the  Nightingale's  song  (61-70). 

1.  It  was  heard  iu  ancient  days   (G4). 

2.  It  was  heard  by  Ruth  in  the  fields  of  Boaz  (65-67). 

3.  It  was  heard  on  the  shores  of  far-away  seas  in  lands  of 

fairy-lore  (68-70). 
v.  The  imaginative  flight  is  ended ;  the  song  dies  away ;  the  poet 
is  called  back  to  himself  and  his  unhappy  state  (71-80). 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 
1 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numhness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk ; 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happj^  lot,  5 

But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 

Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease.  10 

2 

0  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 
Cool  'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 


As  thour/h  of  hemlock,  etc.  (line  2) — Koats  had  studied  medicine 
and  knew  the  effects  of  opiates  and  poisons. 

Lethe-ivards  (4) — towards  forgetfulness.  A  river  in  the  lower 
world  was  called  Lethe.  The  souls  of  the  departed  drank  of  this 
river  and  forgot  all  they  had  said  and  done  in  the  upper  world. 
Lethe  was  also  the  name  of  a  river  in  Spain,  called  the  river  of 
'Forgotfulness. 

Dryad  (7)  —  a  nymph  of  the  trees.  This  is  a  very  happy  designation 
for  the  nightingale  —  "light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees." 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE  195 

Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green, 

Dance,  and  Provengal  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth ! 
0  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South,  15 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim ;        20 

3 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

"What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan : 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  grey  hairs,  25 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs ; 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 

Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow.      30 

4 
Away !  away !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards. 


Flora   (13) — tbo  Roman  goddess  of  flowers  and  spring. 

Provencal  (14) — relating  to  Provence  in  tlie  south  of  France; 
liquid  and  musical  tones. 

Hippocrene  (16) — a  fountain  in  Mt.  Helicon  in  Greece  sacred  to 
tlie  Muses,  said  to  have  been  produced  by  the  horse  Tegasus  striking 
the  ground  with  his  foot ;  Pegasus  being  the  horse  of  the  Muses  upon 
which  poets  soar. 

Bacchus   (32)  — the  god  of  wine. 

Pards  (32) — panthers;  Bacchus  was  often  represented  In  Greek 
art  as  riding  on  a  panther. 


106  ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

But  on  tho  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards : 
Already  with  thee !  tender  is  the  night,  35 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster 'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Faj's; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  40 

mossy  ways. 


I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

"Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild ;  45 

White  hawthorne,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast-fading  violets  cover  'd  up  in  leaves ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves.     50 


Darkling  I  listen ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  Avith  easeful  Death, 

Call  'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 
To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 


Fays   (37) — fairies. 

BcmonaWc  month   (44)  —  the  month  in  Its  season. 

erjlaniinc   (4(5)  — a  spocios  of  roso. 

Darkling   (51) — dlmlj',   indistinctly,  vaguely. 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE  197 

Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, — ■  55 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy ! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod.  60 


Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path  65 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm 'd  magic  easements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn.  70 


8 

Forlorn !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self  I 

Adieu !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 


Alien  corn  (67)  — wheat,  and  barley  in  the  land  of  Roaz. 
Elf  (74)  — a  little  sprite  or  imaginary  supernatural  being  much  like 
a  fairy. 


198  ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

Adieu !  adieu !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades  75 

Past  the  near  meadoAvs,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music :  —  do  I  wake  or  sleep  ?  80 

—  John  Keats. 


In  connection  with  this  poem  read  Shelley's  Ode  to  a 
Skylark,  Matthew  Arnold's  Philomela  and  Words- 
worth's To  a  Cuckoo. 


Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 


199 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN  201 


ODE    ON   A   GRECIAN   URN 

'The  main  conception  upon  which  Keats 's  Ode  on  a 
Grecian  Urn  is  based  is  the  permanent  and  unchanging 
character  of  the  beautiful  as  expressed  in  the  plastic  art 
as  compared  with  its  change  and  brevity  in  nature  and  in 
human  life ;  but  there  are  four  other  ideas  in  the  poem  of 
great  importance:  (1)  the  superiority  of  art  to  poetry; 
(2)  the  kinship  of  art  with  infinity  and  eternity;  (3)  the 
identity  of  beauty  and  truth;  (4)  the  supreme  value  of 
the  knowledge  of  this  identity. 

In  the  garden,  of  Holland  House,  London,  there  may 
still  be  seen  a  large  marble  urn  or  vase  which  is  pointed 
out  as  the  particular  urn  which  inspired  this  beautiful 
poem,  but  to  the  present  writer  it  seems  more  probable 
that  Keats  had  in  mind  an  urn  in  the  British  Museum. 
The  Holland  House  urn  does  not  fill  Keats 's  description : 
there  are  no  youths  and  maidens,  no  love  scenes,  no  "wild 
ecstasy,"  no  "fair  youth  beneath  the  trees,"  no  lowing 
heifer  lead  to  the  altar.  The  animals  on  it  are  a  hog 
and  a  bull,  there  are  twelve  human  figures,  and  there  are 
preparations  for  a  sacrifice,  but  not  such  as  Keats  de- 
scribes. The  poet  may  possibly  have  had  this  urn  in 
mind,  or  he  may  have  had  in  mind  some  other ;  it  does  not 
matter.  The  thing  the  reader  needs  to  do  is  to  see  in  his 
imagination  the  work  of  art  as  portrayed  by  the  poet,  and 
get  his  thought  and  his  feeling.  The  reader  should  con- 
ceive of  an  ancient  marble  vase  of  Greek  art,  one  side  of 
which  is  covered  with  figures  in  relief  representing  a  syl- 
van scene,  with  deities  or  mortals,  men  and  maidens,  a 


202  ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

lover  pursuing  a  maiden  who  is  trying  playfully  to 
escape,  a  youth  playing  a  pipe  beneath  a  tree;  it  is 
spring,  and  the  scene  is  full  of  verdure  and  song  and 
gladness  and  love.  On  the  other  side  of  the  vase  is  an 
altar  covered  with  green  boughs,  a  heifer  decked  with 
garlands  is  being  led  by  a  priest  to  the  sacrifice,  and  the 
people  from  some  little  town  are  coming  to  take  part  in 
the  rite.  The  town  itself  is  not  represented  on  the  urn, 
but  the  poet  sees  it  as  clearly  as  if  it  were  there.  Here, 
then,  we  have  the  "material"  out  of  which  the  poem  is 
made. 

In  Stanza  1  the  poet  apostrophizes  the  urn  as  the 
"bride  of  quietness"  and  the  "foster-child  of  silence  and 
slow  time,"  implying  that  it  has  been  speechless  except 
with  the  voice  of  art  and  denoting  the  long  time  it  has 
existed  from  classic  to  modem  days.  It  is  an  element  in 
the  silence  of  the  centuries.  It  is  a  "  sylvan  historian, '  * 
because  it  portraj^s  a  sylvan  scene  and  tells  in  its  own 
way  a  "flowery  tale."  The  declaration  that  this  old 
Greek  urn  can  ' '  express  a  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than 
our  rhyme"  raises  the  question  of  the  comparative  power 
of  expression  possessed  by  art  and  b}'  poetry.  Mr.  Downer 
{The  Odes  of  Keats,  Oxford,  1897)  says:  "The  poet 
perceives  the  inner  meaning  of  the  figures  on  the  urn 
and  recognizes  the  superiority  in  some  respects  of  an 
artistic  over  a  poetic  presentation  of  ideas.  What  are 
these  respects?  Keats  says  that  the  urn  tells  the  story 
'more  sweetly'  than  poetry.  We  are  here  in  the  meta- 
physics of  art,  and  the  passage  is  one  amongst  others 
that  go  to  show  that  Keats  was  not  only  a  seeker  after 
the  beautiful,  but  was  ripening  for  deeper  thought,  a 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN  203 

more  mature  and  philosophic  brain-work."  Those  who 
care  to  follow  the  subject  further  should  read  Matthew 
Arnold's  Epilogue  to  Lessing's  Laocoon.  After  express- 
ing the  supremacy  of  art  over  poetry,  Keats  goes  on  to 
question  the  urn  as  to  the  legends  on  its  sides.  Are 
these  beings  men  or  gods?  What  maidens  are  these? 
The  questions  are  left  unanswered:  the  imagination  is 
free  to  frame  its  own  reply;  but  the  profitable  reader 
must  hear  the  pipes  and  timbrels  and  must  see,  even  as 
Keats  saw,  the  wild  ecstasy. 

Stanza  2  begins  with  the  famous  line, 

"Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter"  — 

those  which  are  heard  in  the  imagination,  in  the  soul. 
The  melodies  heard  by  a  poet  like  Milton  or  a  musician 
like  Beethoven  were  doubtless  sweeter  and  richer  than 
those  made  by  any  earthly  instruments.  The  relative 
truth  of  Keats 's  statement  will  depend  upon  the  imagi- 
native and  musical  powers  of  the  reader.  The  youth  on 
the  urn  does  not  pipe  to  the  ear  of  sense  but  to  the 
spirit,  and  so  his  song  goes  on  forever.  The  permanence 
of  art  and  of  the  delights  it  depicts  is  pointed  out:  the 
trees  will  be  for  ever  green,  the  maiden  for  ever  fair. 

This  permanence  of  art,  and  its  superiority  over 
nature,  are  further  emphasized  in  Stanza  3.  The  lover 
and  the  maiden,  the  musician  and  the  boughs  of  green, 
are  gone  centuries  ago  from  real  life,  but  art  has  made 
them  ours  for  ever  here  on  the  urn.  How  happy  they 
should  all  be  that  they  can  thus  endure,  and  how  fortu- 
nate! 


204  ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

In  Stanza  4  the  poet  turns  to  the  other  side  of  the 
urn  and  sees  the  preparations  for  the  religious  sacrifice, 
and  in  his  fanc}^  beholds,  also,  the  little  town  whose 
inhabitants  have  come  out  "this  pious  morn"  to  take 
part  in  the  ceremony  to  the  gods.  And  this  little  town, 
also  true  to  the  demands  of  art,  will  silent  be  for  ever- 
more and  not  a  soul  will  ever  return  to  its  streets,  for 
here  they  are,  fixed  for  all  time  on  the  sides  of  this  old 
urn. 

The  closing  stanza,  like  the  first,  apostrophizes  the 
"Attic  shape"  in  its  "fair  attitude,"  and,  with  splendid 
reach  of  thought  and  imagination,  exclaims, 

"Thou,  silent  form,  doth  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  Eternity —  !" 

This  is  perhaps  the  most  spacious  and  highly  poetic 
conception  of  the  entire  poem.  To  appreciate  it  one 
must  have  felt  the  mysterious  and  mighty  power  of  some 
great  work  of  art  and  realized  its  kinship  with  the  things 
that  are  eternal.  ' '  Our  thought  can  no  more  compass  the 
ideas  and  feelings  awakened  by  the  urn  than  it  can 
comprehend  eternity  itself.  The  same  kind  of  baffled 
feeling  is  produced  as  when  we  strive  to  grasp  the  infin- 
ite." 

Finally  we  have  the  famous  dictum  or  message  of 
the  urn  that  "beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"  and  the 
life-creed  of  Keats  that  this  is  all  that  man  needs  to 
know  on  earth.  "To  see  things  in  their  beauty,"  says 
]\ratthow  Arnold,  "is  to  see  things  in  their  truth,  and 
Keats  knew  it.  'What  the  imagination  seizes  as  beauty 
must  be  truth,'  he  says  in  prose;  and  in  immortal  verse 
he  has  said  the  same  thing: 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN  205 

'Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,  that  is  nil 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know.' 

*'No,  it  is  not  all;  but  it  is  true,  deeply  true,  and  we 
have  deep  need  to  know  it.  And  with  beauty  goes  not 
only  truth,  joy  goes  with  her  also ;  and  this,  too,  Keats 
saw  and  said,  as  in  the  first  line  of  his  Endymion  it 
stands  written 

'A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever.' 

"It  is  no  small  thing  to  have  so  loved  the  principle  of 
beauty  as  to  perceive  the  necessary  relation  of  beauty 
and  truth,  and  of  both  with  joy.  Keats  was  a  great 
spirit,  and  counts  for  far  more  than  many  even  of  his 
admirers  suppose,  because  this  just  and  high  perception 
made  itself  clear  to  him. ' ' 


ANALYSIS. 

I.  The  poet  introduces  the  reader  to  the  old  Greek  urn  and  the 
figures  on  one  side  of  it.     Lines  1-10. 

1.  The  urn  is  like  a  bride  of  quietness  (1). 

2.  Like  a  foster-child  of  silence   (2). 

3.  It  is  a  historian  of  sylvan  scenes,  with  legends  of  deities 

or  mortals   (3-8). 

4.  The  tale  is  told  more  sweetly  here  than  it  could  be  ia 

poetry. 

5.  A  sylvan  scene  of  love  and  play  (8-10). 

II.  Suggested  or  imagined   melodies  sweeter  than  those  we  hear 
(11-14).    The  shepherds  are  urged  to  play  on  for  the  ear 
of  the  spirit   (12-14). 
III.  The  permanence  of  art   (15-30). 

1.  The  youth  on  this  urn  will  always  sing  (15-16). 

2.  The  trees  will  always  be  in  leaf  (IG). 

3.  The    lover    will    forever    be    bold    and    the    maiden    fair 

(17-20). 

4.  It  will  always  be  spring  (21-22). 

5.  The  songs  will  always  be  new  (22-24). 


206  ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

0.  The  love  here  portrayed  will  alwaj-s  be  young  (25-27). 

7.  This   love   is   a   higher   passion   than   that   in   life   which 
brings  its  regrets  (28-30). 
IV.  The  other  side  or  view  of  the  urn  is  presented   (31-40). 

1.  A  sacrificial  scene  —  the  people   (31-34). 

2.  The  priest,  the  sacrificial  heifer. 

3.  The   little   town    (not   shown   on   the   urn   but  imagined) 

from  which  the  people  come  to  the  sacrifice   (35-37). 

4.  The  streets  of  this  town  will  be  empty  forever,  for  here 

the  people  are  at  the  sacrifice ! 
v.  Art  like  this  has  a  kinship  with  eternity  ;  to  know  beauty  is  to 
know  truth,  but  they  baffle  ("tease")  us  with  something 
of  the  sense  of  eternity  (41-50). 


ODE  OX  A  GRECIAN  URN 
1 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf -f  ring 'd  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape  5 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both. 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 

"What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?    What  maidens  loth  ? 
What  mad  pursuit?    What  struggle  to  escape? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?    Wliat  wild  ecstasy  ?         10 

2 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on : 


Icaf-Jringed  (line  5) — doubtless  referring  to  the  border  round  the 
urn. 

Tempe  (7) — a  vale  in  Thessaly,  celebrated  by  Greek  poets  on  ac- 
count of  its  beautiful  scenery. 

Arcady  (7) — Arcadia,  a  mountainous  district  in  the  Peloponnesus, 
taken  as  the  ideal  region  of  rural  contentment. 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN  207 

Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear 'd. 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave        15 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal  —  j'et,  do  not  grieve ; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair !  20 

3 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu ; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied. 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new ; 
More  happy  love !  more  happy,  happy  love !  25 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy 'd, 
For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy  'd, 
A  burning  forehead  and  a  parcliing  tongue.  30 

4 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  0  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies. 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ? 
"What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore,  35 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel. 
Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 


sensual  ear  (13)  — ear  of  sense. 

human  passion  far  above  (28)  — passion  far  above  human  passion. 


208  ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

And  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 

Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return^  40 


0  Attic  shape !    Fair  attitude !    With  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 

Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  Eternity :    Cold  Pastoral !  45 

Wlien  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 

*  *  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty, ' '  —  that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know.  50 

—  John  Keats. 


Attic  shape  (41)  —  pertaining  to  Attica  (Greece)  or  to  its  capital, 
Athens ;    Greeli. 

fair  attitude   (41) — •pleasing  appearance. 

brede  (41)  —   braid. 

overwrought   (42) — -worked  all  over. 

Cold  pastoral  (45)  — a  pastoral,  or  rural  poem,  in  marble. 

friend  to  man  (48)  —  because  of  the  lesson  it  teaches  in  the  next 
line. 


The  Sermon  of  St.  Francis 


209 


THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS  211 

THE    SERMON    OF    ST.    FRANCIS 

Longfellow's  little  poem  called  The  Sermon  of  St. 
Francis  has  reference  to  one  of  the  most  famous  sermons 
in  the  world.  This  sermon  is  very  brief  (perhaps  that  is 
one  reason  why  it  is  so  famous),  and  it  may  never  have 
been  preached  at  all ;  it  may  be  only  legendary. 

St.  Francis  of  Assisi  was  born  at  Assisi,  Italy,  in  1182 
and  died  1226.  He  was  the  founder  of  the  great  order 
of  Franciscan  Monks.  Incidentally  I  may  call  attention 
to  the  fact  that  the  city  of  San  Francisco  was  named 
for  him.  Saint  Francis  lived  in  great  simplicity,  and 
he  loved  birds  and  beasts  as  w^ell  as  men.  For  two  hun- 
dred years  after  his  death  his  sayings  and  sermons  were 
handed  down  by  word  of  mouth,  but  they  were  finally 
collected  under  the  title  of  The  Little  Flowers  of  Saint 
Francis.  From  this  collection  of  legends  the  story  of 
his  famous  sermon  to  the  birds  as  well  as  the  little  sermon 
itself  is  taken.  The  legend  goes  on  to  say  that  one  day, 
with  his  companions,  passing  on  his  way  he  raised  his 
eyes  and  saw  certain  trees  by  the  roadside  in  which  were 
an  infinite  multitude  of  birds;  at  which  Saint  Francis 
marveled  greatly,  and  said  to  his  companions,  ''Await 
me  here  in  the  road,  and  I  will  go  and  preach  to  my 
sisters  the  birds."  And  he  entered  the  field  and  began 
to  preach  to  the  birds  which  were  on  the  ground,  and 
suddenly  those  which  were  in  the  trees  came  down  to 
him,  and  as  many  as  there  were  they  all  stood  quietly 
until  Saint  Francis  had  done  preaching,  and  even  then 


212  THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS 

they  did  not  depart  until  such,  time  as  he  had  given  them 
his  blessing. 

Following  is  the  sermon  preached  by  Saint  Francis  to 
his  little  sisters  the  birds : 

"My  sisters  the  birds,  ye  are  greatly  beholden  unto  God  your 
Creator,  and  always  and  in  every  place  it  is  your  duty  to  praise 
Him,  for  as  miu-b  as  He  hath  given  you  freedom  to  tly  in  every 
place ;  also  hath  He  given  you  raiment  twofold  and  threefold 
almost,  because  He  preserved  your  seed  in  the  ark  of  Noah,  that 
your  race  might  never  be  less.  Again  ye  are  beholden  to  Him  for 
the  element  of  the  air,  which  He  has  deputed  unto  you  ;  moreover 
you  sow  not,  neither  do  you  reap,  and  God  feeds  you  and  gives  you 
the  streams  and  fountains  for  your  thrift.  He  gives  you  mountains 
and  valleys  for  your  refuge,  tall  trees  wherein  to  make  your  nests, 
and  inasmuch  as  you  neither  spin  nor  weave,  God  clothes  you,  you 
and  your  children.  Hence  you  should  love  your  Creator  greatly, 
who  gives  you  such  great  benefits,  and  therefore  beware,  my  sis- 
ters, of  the  sin  of  ingratitude,  and  ever  strive  to  pi'aise  God." 

Finally,  his  preaching  ended,  Saint  Francis  made  them 
the  sign  of  the  cross  and  gave  them  leave  to  depart ;  and 
then  all  the  birds  rose  into  the  air  with  wondrous  songs, 
and,  according  to  the  cross  which  Saint  Francis  had  made 
over  them,  they  divided  into  four  parts,  and  then  one 
part  flew  towards  the  east,  and  one  towards  the  west,  and 
one  towards  the  south,  and  one  towards  the  north,  and 
each  band  went  away  singing  marvelous  songs. 


THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS 

Up  soared  the  lark  into  the  air, 
A  shaft  of  song,  a  winged  prayer, 
As  if  a  soul,  released  from  pain. 
Were  flying  back  to  heaven  again. 


THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS  213 

St.  Francis  heard ;  it  was  to  him 

An  emblem  of  the  Seraphim ; 

The  upward  motion  of  the  fire, 

The  light,  the  heat,  the  heart's  desire. 

Around  Assisi's  convent  gate 
The  birds,  God 's  poor  who  cannot  wait, 
From  moor  and  mere  and  darksome  wood 
Came  flocking  for  their  dole  of  food. 

"0  brother  birds,"  St.  Francis  said, 
* '  Ye  come  to  me  and  ask  for  bread, 
But  not  with  bread  alone  to-day- 
Shall  ye  be  fed  and  sent  away. 

"Ye  shall  be  fed,  ye  happy  birds, 

With  manna  of  celestial  words ; 

Not  mine,  though  mine  they  seem  to  be. 

Not  mine,  though  they  be  spoken  through  me. 

* '  0  doubly  are  ye  bound  to  praise 
The  great  Creator  in  your  lays ; 
He  giveth  you  your  plumes  of  down. 
Your  crimson  hoods,  your  cloaks  of  brown. 

' '  He  giveth  you  your  wings  to  fly 
And  breathe  a  purer  air  on  high. 
And  careth  for  you  everywhere, 
Who  for  yourselves  so  little  care !" 

With  flutter  of  swift  wings  and  songs 
Together  rose  the  feathered  throngs, 


214  THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS 

And  singing  scattered  far  apart; 
Deep  peace  was  in  St.  Francis'  heart. 

He  knew  not  if  the  brotherhood 
His  homily  had  understood  ; 
He  only  knew  that  to  one  ear 
The  meaning  of  his  words  was  clear. 


—  H.  W.  Longfellow. 


Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns 
of  Bethlehem 


215 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS  217 

HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS  OF 
BETHLEHEM 

When  General  Lafayette  visited  the  United  States  in 
1824  he  was  received  with  great  enthusiasm  everywhere. 
Nilcs's  Register  for  October  16,  1824  (quoted  in  the 
North  American  Review  for  April,  1825),  in  describing 
his  entrance  into  Baltimore,  says : 

"As  the  General  passed  down  the  line,  a  sacred  and  interesting 
relic  of  the  revolution  was  presented  to  his  notice.  It  was  the 
original  standard  of  the  brave  and  generous  General  Count  Pulaski, 
whose  heroism  and  devotion  to  the  cause  of  liberty  are  conspicuous  in 
the  records  of  the  war  of  independence.  The  corps  of  Forsyth's 
riflemen  had  solicited  and  obtained  from  its  possessor,  the  worthy 
Colonel  Bentalou,  the  honour  of  carrying  this  standard  upon  the 
day  of  the  General's  arrival  in  the  city  ;  and  it  was  on  this  occasion 
displayed  upon  one  of  the  spears  used  by  the  lancers  of  the  legion, 
entwined  with  Pulaski's  sword  belt.  It  was  when  this  gallant 
officer  received  his  mortal  wound  in  the  attack  upon  Savannah,  on 
the  19th  of  October,  1779,  and  his  noble  soul  was  about  leaving  its 
earthly  tenement,  that  he  bequeathed  this  belt  to  his  loved  and 
equally  brave  companion  in  arms,  Colonel  (then  captain)  Benta- 
lou. The  legion  of  Pulaski  was  raised,  organized  and  disciplined 
in  Baltimore  in  the  spring  of  177S.  At  that  period  the  country 
generally  was  destitute,  none  of  the  fine  or  useful  arts  were  culti- 
vated—  the  whole  energies  of  the  people  being  bent  on  the  war. 
The  army  was  poorly  clad  and  badly  fed  —  and  in  the  absence  of 
more  elegant  materials  or  accomplished  artists,  the  standard  of 
the  legion  was  formed  of  a  piece  of  crimson  silk,  and  embroidered 
by  the  Moldavian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem,  in  Pennsylvania.  On  one  side 
are  the  initials  U.  S.  with  this  motto — TJnita  Virtus  Fortior — ■ 
on  the  reverse,  the  all  seeing  eye,  surrounded  with  thirteen  stars, 
and  the  motto,  Non  alius  regit.  It  may  appear,  as  it  certainly 
is,  a  singular  circumstance  that  the  standard  (first  consecrated  at 
Baltimore  when  a  small  village),  after  having  waved  over  the 
greater  part  of  the  old  thirteen  states,  should  be  returned  to  the 
same  place,  now  a  large  and  important  city,  and  there  be  perma- 
nently enshrined." 

Longfellow  read  this  account,  as  copied  in  the  North 


21S  HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS 

American  Rcviciv,  of  which  Jared  Sparks  was  then  edi- 
tor, and  thereupon  wrote  the  poem,  Hymn  of  the  Mora- 
vian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem. 

The  banner  is  now  the  property  of  the  Maryland  His- 
torical Society,  Baltimore,  which  came  into  possession  of 
it  in  1844.  It  is  twenty  inches  square,  and  is  much 
faded  and  discolored  by  time. 

Bethlehem,  Pennsylvania,  has  the  second  oldest  board- 
ing school  for  girls  in  the  United  States  (founded  1741), 
the  oldest  being  the  Ursuline  Academy  in  New  Orleans 
(founded  1727).  It  was  at  this  Moravian  Seminary  in 
Bethlehem  that  the  Pulaski  banner  was  made.  Pulaski 
is  said  to  have  ordered  it  when  there  on  a  visit  to  Lafay- 
ette who  lay  sick  at  Bethlehem. 

The  banner  did  not,  of  course,  become  Pulaski's 
"shroud,"  as  the  poem  says,  or  it  could  not  now  be  in 
the  historical  cabinet  in  Baltimore.  Pulaski  was  mor- 
tally wounded  in  the  attack  upon  Savannah,  October  9, 
1779.  He  was  conveyed  on  the  U.  S.  brig  Wasp  to  be 
taken  round  to  Charleston,  and  died  on  the  voyage.  His 
body  was  buried  at  sea. 

This  is  the  common  account  of  his  death  and  burial, 
but  Justin  Winsor  {Narrative  and  Critical  History  of 
America,  Vol.  VI,  p.  524)  says  that  at  the  laying  of  a 
corner-stone  of  a  monument  to  his  memory  in  Savannah, 
a  metallic  box  supposed  to  contain  his  remains  was  placed 
within  the  plinth  alongside  the  corner-stone.  Further- 
more, an  aide-de-camp  to  Pulaski  is  quoted  by  Windsor 
as  saying  that  the  remains  were  buried  under  a  large 
tree  about  fifty  miles  from  Savannah.    Whatever  the  fact 


OF  BETHLEHEM  210 

may  be  about  his  burial  place,  the  banner  is  in  Balti- 
more—  and  a  flag  twenty  inches  square  wouldn't  make 
much  of  a  winding-sheet  anyhow ! 

The  poem  is  one  of  Longfellow 's  earliest  —  it  was  pub- 
lished the  year  following  his  graduation  from  college  — 
and  while  it  has  some  very  obvious  faults,  it  has  been 
widely  popular,  and  deservedly  so.  If  historical  accu- 
racy were  an  essential  of  poetry,  this  Hymn  would  be 
lacking.  The  description  of  the  chapel  is  that  of  a 
Medieval  Roman  Catholic  church,  with  its  "glimmering 
tapers,"  its  "cowled  head,"  its  "burning  censer,"  its 
"dim  mysterious  aisle"  and  "the  nuns'  sweet  hymn." 
And  then  the  spear  and  the  lance  had  gone  out  of  use 
long  before  the  days  of  the  American  Revolution. 

It  is  easy  to  criticize  the  poem  —  just  as  it  is  easy  to 
criticize  the  Psalm  of  Life  —  but  it  early  got  into  the 
school  readers  and  the  public  has  always  liked  it. 


HYMN   OP   THE   MOILS.VIAN    NUNS   OF   BETHLEHEM 
At  the  Consecration  of  Pulaski's  Banner. 

When  the  dying  flame  of  day 
Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 
Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 
Faint  light  on  the  cowied  head ; 
And  the  censer  burning  swung, 
"Where  before  the  altar,  hung 
The  crimson  banner,  that  with  prayer 
Had  been  consecrated  there. 


220  HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS 

And  the  nuus'  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the  while, 
Sung  low,  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 

' '  Take  thy  banner !  May  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave; 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  sabbath  of  our  vale, 
When  the  clarion's  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 
When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 


'  Take  thy  banner !  and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud's  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it,  till  our  homes  are  free! 
Guard  it !    God  will  prosper  thee ! 
In  the  dark  and  trying  hour. 
In  the  brealdng  forth  of  power. 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 


■  Take  thy  banner !    But  when  night 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 
If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 
Spare  him !    By  our  holy  vow. 
By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 
By  the  mercy  that  endears, 
Spare  him!  he  our  love  hath  shared! 
Spare  him !  as  thou  wouldst  be  spared ! 


OF  BETHLEHEM  221 

"Take  thy  banner!  and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier's  bier, 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 
Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee." 

The  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 
And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud. 

—  Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


Ulysses 


223 


ULYSSES  225 


ULYSSES 


Uhjsscs  was  the  first  poem  to  obtain  for  Tennyson  offi- 
cial recognition,  and  was  one  of  the  poems  which  drew 
the  attention  of  England  to  the  young  poet.  In  1845,  when 
the  question  arose  whether  the  vacant  pension  should 
be  given  by  the  Government  to  Tennyson  or  to  Sheridan 
Knowles,  Lord  Houghton  got  Sir  Robert  Peel  to  read 
Ulysses,  whereupon  the  pension  was  granted  to  Tenny- 
son. It  was  written  soon  after  the  death  of  Arthur  Hal- 
lam,  the  poet's  much  beloved  friend,  and  Tennyson  says 
(in  the  If emmVs  by  his  son)  :  '' Ulysses  .  .  .  gave  my 
feeling  about  the  need  of  going  forward,  and  braving 
the  struggle  of  life  perhaps  more  simply  than  anything 
in  In  Memoriam."  "Ulysses,"  says  Aubrey  De  Vere, 
**.  .  .  shows  us  what  Heroism  m.ay  become  in  old 
age,  though  sustained  by  little  except  the  love  of  knowl- 
edge, and  the  scorn  of  sloth.  Carlyle  said  that  it  was 
Ulysses  which  first  convinced  him  that  '  Tennyson  was  a 
true  poet. '  ' ' 

Ulysses  was  king  of  Ithaca,  an  island  on  the  west  coast 
of  Greece,  and  was  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  respected 
of  the  heroes  in  the  war  against  Troy,  which  lasted  ten 
years,  and  which  was  caused  by  the  abduction  of  Helen 
of  Sparta  by  Paris,  son  of  Priam,  King  of  Troy.  Helen 
was  the  daughter  of  a  king,  the  wife  of  a  king,  and  the 
most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world.  The  story  of  the 
siege  of  Troy  is  told  in  Homer's  Iliad.  Ulysses  (whose 
Greek  name  was  Odysseus)  was  full  of  courage,  perse- 
verance, prudence  and  cunning,  and  had  a  large  part  in 


226  ULYSSES 

the  final  fall  of  Troy.  His  adventures  during  the  return 
home  from  Troy  and  on  his  arrival  in  his  native  country 
form  the  contents  of  the  Odyssey  of  Homer.  Ten  years 
of  the  most  stirring  adventure  wore  spent  in  reaching 
home;  and,  according  to  the  Homeric  account,  all  of  his 
companions  perished,  and  Ulysses  alone  reached  his 
native  shores.  There  he  found  that  more  than  a  hun- 
dred noble  youths  of  Ithaca  and  the  surrounding  islands 
had  appeared  as  suitors  for  the  hand  of  his  wife  Pe- 
nelope, had  persecuted  his  son  Telemachus,  and  were 
feasting  and  rioting  upon  the  substance  of  the  long- 
absent  king.  Ulysses  destroyed  them  and  took  posses- 
sion of  his  home  and  his  throne.  Here  the  Homeric 
story  ends,  except  for  a  hint  that  Ulysses  should  again 
travel,  till  he  came  to  a  place  where  men,  seeing  the  oar 
upon  his  shoulder,  should  take  it  for  a  winnowing-fan. 
Then  he  was  to  turn  again  homewards  and  death,  ever  so 
gentle,  should  come  to  him  outworn  in  a  happy  old  age, 
and  his  people  should  be  happy  around  him.  In  the 
Inferno  of  Dante  it  is  said  that  Ulysses,  after  returning 
to  Ithaca,  again  traveled  with  that  little  company  by 
which  he  was  not  deserted  westwards  to  a  great  mountain 
in  the  ocean  beyond  Gibraltar,  where  the  ship  foun- 
dered and  the  sea  closed  over  them. 

In  canto  XXVI  of  the  Inferno,  lines  90-124  (John 
Aitkcn  Carlyle's  translation),  Ulysses  is  made  to  say: 

"When  I  departed  from  Circe,  who  beyond  a  year  de- 
tained me  there  near  Gaeta,  ere  Aeneas  thus  had  named 
it,  neither  fondness  for  my  son,  nor  reverence  for  my 
aged  father,  nor  the  due  love  that  should  have  cheered 
Penelope,  could  conquer  in  me  the  ardour  that  I  had 


ULYSSES  227 

to  gain  experience  of  the  world,  and  of  human  vice  and 
worth;  I  put  forth  on  the  deep  open  sea,  with  but  one 
ship,  and  with  that  small  company,  which  had  not 
deserted  me.  Both  the  shores  I  saw  as  far  as  Spain,  far 
as  ilorocco ;  and  saw  Sardinia  and  the  other  isles  which 
that  sea  bathes  round.  I  and  my  companions  were  old 
and  tardy,  when  we  came  to  that  narrow  pass,  where 
Hercules  assigned  his  landmarks  to  hinder  man  from 
venturing  farther;  on  the  right  hand,  I  left  Seville;  on 
the  other,  had  already  left  Ceuta.  '0  brothers,'  I  said, 
'who  through  a  hundred  thousand  dangers  have  reached 
the  West,  deny  not,  to  this  the  brief  vigil  of  your  senses 
that  remains,  experience  of  the  unpeopled  world  behind 
the  Sun.  Consider  your  origin:  ye  were  not  formed  to 
live  like  brutes,  but  to  follow  virtue  and  knowledge.' 
With  this  brief  speech  I  made  my  companions  so  eager 
for  the  voyage,  that  I  could  hardly  then  have  checked 
them." 

Tennyson  also  represents  Ulysses  as  calling  together 
the  remnant  of  his  old  comrades  and  telling  them  that  he 
has  decided  to  set  forth  upon  new  adventures  and  new 
discoveries,  and  to  sail  beyond  the  sunset  and  the  baths 
of  all  the  western  stars, —  that  unknown  western  ocean 
which  his  eager  and  inquiring  spirit  longed  to  explore. 
The  poem  is  in  the  Greek  manner  and  characterized  by 
the  Greek  directness,  simplicity  and  dignity.  Many  of 
the  phrases  are  direct  from  the  Odyssey,  among  them 
these  —  ''The  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy,"  "delight 
of  battle,"  "the  dark,  broad  seas,"  "sitting  well  in  order 
smite  the  sounding  furrows,"  "the  baths  of  all  the  west- 
ern stars,"  and  "cities  of  men  and  manners";  and  the 


228  ULYSSES 

vsympatlietic  reader  fools  that  it  is  -a  continuation  of  the 
great  Homeric  story  —  and  worthy  to  be. 

The  chief  conception  of  the  poem  is  the  love  of  knowl- 
edge and  the  love  of  experience,  with  the  heroic  deter- 
mination to  pursue  them  to  the  uttermost;  this  was 
Ulysses'  quest.  He  was  always  roaming  with  a  hungry 
heart,  and  he  had  seen  much  and  experienced  much, 
but  the  more  one  knows  the  more  the  horizon  of  knowl- 
edge widens ;  and  life  piled  on  life  were  too  little  for  one 
to  see  and  experience  all.  True,  he  is  old  and  only  three 
or  four  years  of  life  yet  remain,  but  every  hour  may 
bring  some  new  thing,  and  he  is  determined  to  strive,  to 
seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 

The  lines  are  addressed  to  the  men  who  have  spent 
twenty  years  with  him  —  ten  in  the  Trojan  war  and  ten 
in  contending  with  the  fates  upon  the  return  voyage  to 
Greece. 


ULYSSES 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king. 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 

Match 'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race. 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not  me. 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel :  I  will  drink 

Life  to  the  lees :  all  times  I  have  enjoy  'd 


Matched  vith  an  aped  v:ife  {Jine  3)  — Penelope  had  waited  faith- 
fully for  twenty  years  for  his  return ;  his  leaving  her  now  is  not 
in   harmony   with   modern   ideas. 

Vnci/udl  hnrx  (4) — his  suhjeots  were  not  sufBciently  civilized 
to    be    governed   with    general    laws. 


ULYSSES  229 

Greatly,  have  suffer 'd  greatly,  both  with  those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone ;  on  shore,  and  when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades  10 

Vext  the  dim  sea :  I  am  become  a  name ; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known ;  cities  of  men 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 
Myself  not  least,  but  honour 'd  of  them  all;  15 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 
Gleams  that  untravell  'd  world,  whose  margin  fades       20 
For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnish  'd,  not  to  shine  in  use ! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.    Life  piled  on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me  25 

Little  remains :  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things ;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire  30 

To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star, 
Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 
This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 


Rainy  Hijades  (10) — a  group  of  stars  whose  appearance  was 
supposed   to   portend   rainv  weather. 

Whose  margin  fades  vlO) — as  the  horizon  can  never  be  reached, 
so   the   limits    of    knowledge   can   never    be   reached. 

For  some  three  suns  (29)  —  for  the  three  or  four  years  of  life 
yet   remaining. 

This  is  mil  son,  etc.  (33-34) — Telemachus  is  better  fitted  to  rule 
such  a  people  than  he  is. 


230  ULYSSES 

To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle  — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil  35 

This  labour,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  eommon  duties,  decent  not  to  fail  40 

In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay- 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods. 
When  I  am  gone.    He  worhs  his  work,  I  mine. 
There  lies  the  port ;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.    My  mariners,  45 

Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and  thought  with 

me  — 
That  ever  Avith  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads  —  you  and  I  are  old ; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil ;  50 

Death  closes  all :  but  something  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks : 


Botils  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and  thought  mth  me  (4G)  —  E. 
C.  E.  Owen,  a  former  Fellow  of  New  College,  Oxford,  says :  "The 
long  line,  with  its  pairs  of  monosyllables  and  repetition  of  similar 
syllables,  seems  to  measure  out  tbe  long  years  of  labors  shared  to- 
gether" ;  and  of  line  5.",  the  long  day  tvancs:  the  slow  moon  climbs; 
etc.,  he  says :  "Another  line  consisting  entirely  of  monosyllables, 
suggesting  the  slow  movement  of  time  to  one  in  haste  to  bo  gone, 
■with  so  much  to  be  done,  and  so  little  time  left  in  which  to  do  it." 

That  strove  uith  gods  (."(3) — The  gods  are  represented  as  hav- 
ing taken  part,  on  one  side  or  the  other,  in  the  slego  of  Troy,  and 
also  as  having  interfered  with  or  helped  Ulysses  and  his  mariners 
upon    their    rttura   journey. 


ULYSSES  231 

The  long  day  wanes :  the  slow  moon  climbs :  the  deep    55 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.    Come,  my  friends, 

'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 

Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 

The  sounding  furrows ;  for  my  purpose  holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths  60 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down : 

It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 

And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 

Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides;  and  tho'  65 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 

Moved  earth  and  heaven ;  that  which  we  are,  we  are ; 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield.  70 

—  Alfred  Tennyson. 

Kead  Tennyson's  The  Lotus-Eafers  as  a  contrast  to 
Ulysses. 

Of  lines  62-64,  Carlyle  said,  "These  lines  do  not  make 
me  weep,  but  there  is  in  me  v/hat  would  fill  whole  Lach- 
rymatories as  I  read." 


The  latlis  of  all  the  xcestern  stars  (60)  —  the  Greeks  believed  that 
the  stars  revolved  round  the  earth,  and  in  setting  sunii  into  the 
western  sea. 

The  happy  Isles  (63)  — The  abode  of  the  blessed  after  death,  at  the 
western  extremity  of  the  earth.     The  Elysian  Fields  were  there. 

Achilles  (64) — the  greatest  of  the  Grecli  warriors  at  the  siege  of  Troy. 


Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington 


233 


THE  DEATH  OF  WELLINGTON  235 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF 
AVELLI'NGTON 

Au  ode  is  a  "strain  of  enthusiastic  and  exalted  lyrical 
verse,  directed  to  a  fixed  purpose  and  dealing  progres- 
sively with  one  dignified  theme."  Its  chief  purpose 
often  is  to  honor  some  great  personage,  real  or  fictitious, 
or  to  celebrate  some  important  occasion.  Tennyson's 
great  ode  on  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  pub- 
lished on  the  day  of  the  funeral,  admirably  illustrates 
this  definition.  Its  purpose  was  to  express  the  feelings 
of  the  empire,  for  Tennyson  was  the  laureate  of  the 
nation  and  spoke  in  its  name  rather  than  in  his  own. 

The  funeral  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  (1852)  was 
perhaps  the  most  imposing  in  all  English  history.  A 
million  and  a  half  people  watched  the  procession  through 
Piccadilly,  the  Strand,  Fleet  Street,  and  up  Ludgate 
Hill  to  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  ''in  streaming  London's 
central  roar. ' '  Representatives  of  every  army  in  Europe 
and  of  every  regiment  in  the  British  service  attended. 
The  funeral  car,  drawn  by  six  horses  richly  caparisoned, 
was  constructed  from  guns  taken  in  battles  in  which 
Wellington  was  engaged ;  the  names  of  his  victories  were 
inscribed  in  gold  letters  on  the  ear.  The  great  bell  of 
St.  Paul's,  which  is  tolled  only  at  the  death  of  members 
of  the  royal  family  or  great  dignitaries  of  the  church, 
was  tolled  as  a  special  honor.  Wellington's  titles,  occu- 
pying thirty-seven  printed  lines  in  the  official  register, 
were  read  above  his  coffin  —  evidences  of  that  ''lavish 
honor"  which  Tennyson  speaks  of  which  the  nations  of 


'>.^G  ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 

Europe  delighted  to  bestow  upon  him.  In  that  long  list 
of  titles  were :  Viscount  Wellington  and  Baron  Douro, 
Marshal-General  of  the  Portugese  Array,  Count  of  Vi- 
meiro,  Duke  Ciudad  Rodrigo,  Earl  of  Wellington,  Duke 
of  Verona,  Knight  of  the  Garter,  Knight  of  the  Golden 
Fleece,  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Spanish  Armies, 
Duke  of  Wellington,  Prince  of  Waterloo,  Commander  of 
the  International  Army  of  Europe,  Ambassador  to 
Vienna,  Ambassador  to  Paris,  Prime  Minister  of  Eng- 
land, Master-General  of  the  Ordnance,  Commander-in- 
Chief  of  the  English  Armies,  Ranger  of  Hyde  Park  and 
St.  James  Park,  Field  Marshal  in  the  Austrian,  Russian, 
and  Prussian  Armies,  Governor  of  Plymouth,  Constable 
of  the  Tower,  Lord  High  Constable  of  England,  First 
Lord  of  the  Treasury,  Chancellor  of  the  University  of 
Oxford,  Lord  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports,  and  Duke  of 
Vittoria.  Was  ever  mortal  man  in  modern  times  so 
honored?  "He  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honor  showered  all  her  stars. ' ' 

"Affluent  Fortune  had"  also  "emptied  all  her  horn" 
upon  his  head.  He  was  first  given  a  pension  of  £2,000  a 
year  after  the  battle  of  Talavera,  then  a  further  pension 
of  £2,000  a  year  v.hen  he  was  created  Earl  of  Wellington, 
later  a  grant  of  £100,000,  later  a  further  pension,  re- 
ceived £60,000  as  Waterloo  prize-money,  a  further  grant 
of  £400,000,  another  of  £200,000,  was  presented  by  the 
British  nation  with  an  estate  costing  £263,000  and  with  a 
house  in  London.  The  nation  voted  £80,000  for  his  fune- 
ral, and  a  grateful  people  subscribed  £100,000  to  found 
as  a  national  memorial  Wellington  College  for  the  educa- 
tion of  sons  of  officers. 


DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON  237 

It  is  interesting  to  remember  that  this  great  general 
who  saved  England  from  France,  and  Europe  from  Na- 
poleon, was  an  Irishman,  and  that  he  received  his  mili- 
tary training  in  a  French  military  school  —  such  is  the 
irony  of  history.  The  story  of  his  life  from  the  time  of 
his  birth  as  Arthur  "Wesley  (Wellesley)  in  County 
Meath,  Ireland,  in  1769,  through  his  East  Indian  and 
European  campaigns,  culminating  in  Waterloo,  his 
career  in  Parliament,  when  his  opposition  to  liberal  meas- 
ures brought  upon  him  the  hoots  of  the  crowds  and  per- 
sonal assaults,  to  the  day  when  at  83  he  was  laid  by  the 
side  of  Nelson,  the  great  Admiral,  under  the  dome  and 
the  gold  cross  of  St.  Paul's  and  all  his  titles  read,  may 
be  found  in  any  encyclopedia.  Tennyson  refers  to  some 
of  his  famous  battles  —  Assaye,  Lisbon,  Vittoria,  "Water- 
loo. 

History  illuminates  poetry,  and  poetry  is  the  interpre- 
tation of  history. 

Lord  Nelson,  who,  in  lines  80  and  81,  at  the  opening 
of  the  6th  canto,  is  made  to  inquire : 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honored  guest, 

With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier  and  with  priest, 

With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  my  rest? 

was  England's  greatest  seaman.  His  great  victories  were 
the  battle  of  the  Nile,  the  battle  of  Copenhagen,  and  the 
battle  of  Trafalgar,  where  he  was  killed,  1805.  He  was 
buried  in  St.  Paul's  and  his  funeral  was  the  most  mag- 
nificent that  had  ever  been  seen  up  to  that  time  in  Eng- 
land. The  great  soldier  and  the  great  seaman  lie  side  by 
side ;  their  foes  were  the  same  —  the  French.  The  great 
monument  in  London 's  central  square  —  Trafalgar 
Square  —  is  to  Nelson's  memory. 


238  ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 


ANALYSIS  OF  THE  POEM 

The  ode  opens  with  a  movement  which  Professor  Alden 
calls  "almost  lawless,"  which  Morton  Luce  calls  "a  few 
bars  of  prose  rather  than  verse,"  and  which  Dr.  Van 
Dyke  thinks  is  designed  to  suggest  the  surging  of  the 
crowd  through  the  streets  of  London,  before  the  entrance 
into  the  cathedral  for  the  funeral.  Section  three  repre- 
sents the  funeral  march.  Luce  thinks  that  the  first  three 
short  divisions  are  merely  the  mutterings,  as  we  may  say, 
of  the  rising  storm  of  emotion,  which  reaches  its  climax 
in  the  centre  of  the  poem  when  Nelson  rises  from  his 
tomb  to  welcome  this  last  great  Englishman. 

Stanza  4  is  an  amplification  of  the  thought  in  the  last 
line  of  Stanza  3.  Wellington's  qualities  as  a  soldier, 
statesman,  and  man  are  set  forth :  he  was  long-enduring, 
moderate,  resolute,  whole  in  himself  like  King  Arthur, 
clear  of  ambition  or  pretense,  rich  in  common  sense,  sub- 
lime in  his  simplicity.  And  now  he  lies  like  a  shattered 
column,  and  the  victor  of  Napoleon,  the  great  world-vic- 
tor, will  be  seen  no  more. 

In  Stanza  5  the  body  is  committed  to  the  grave,  ren- 
dered back  to  the  mould.  The  dignified  and  solemn 
iambic  lines  represent  with  great  efi'ectiveness  the  tolling 
of  the  bells  of  St.  Paul 's  and  the  thundering  of  the  can- 
non in  the  Tower  of  London.  Tennyson's  wonderful 
technical  skill  is 'here  displayed  in  the  use  of  the  long  o's 
in  describing  the  tolling  of  the  great  bell ;  also  in  the 
"boom"  and  "doom"  of  the  "bellowing"  cannon. 

At  the  opening  of  Stanza  6,  the  spirit  of  Nelson  in- 


DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON  239 

quires  wlio  this  is  that  comes  with  banner  and  with 
music  and  with  a  nation  weeping  and  breaks  on  his  rest 
in  the  tomb.  With  lines  solemn  and  slow,  like  the 
muffled  music  of  a  funeral  march,  the  answer  begins. 
Then  Wellington's  great  deeds  in  India  and  the  Penin- 
sula, his  victory  over  Napoleon,  ''the  Ravening  Eagle," 
on  that  Sabbath  day  in  June,  are  narrated  in  stirring 
trochaic  lines  with  the  quick  rush  of  battle.  The  choral 
chant  of  the  people  in  the  cathedral  closes  the  stanza 
with  "honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him,  eternal  honor 
to  his  name." 

Tennyson 's  view  of  freedom  is  given  in  the  first  half  of 
the  next  stanza,  and  Wellington  is  described  as  the  em- 
bodiment of  that  idea.  Tennyson  believed  in  progress 
through  law  and  order.  He  was  a  conservative.  He 
hated  "brainless  mobs"  and  called  the  French  Revolu- 
tion "the  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine."  Neither  he  nor 
Wellington  had  any  sympathy  with  the  rising  tide  of 
noisy  reformers,  but  they  believed  in  a  "sober  freedom" 
out  of  which  springs  "our  loyal  passion  for  our  tem- 
perate kings."  To  preserve  this  freedom,  the  country 
must  heed  the  advioe  of  him  who  bade  them  guard  their 
coasts  —  the  advice  of  him  whose  whole  life  was  a  rebuke 
to  all  self-seekers. 

The  dominant  strain  of  Stanza  8  is  that  the  path  of 
duty  is  the  way  to  glory.  The  great  Duke  followed  this 
path,  and  from  her  open  hands  lavish  Honor  showered 
all  her  stars  upon  him  and  affluent  Fortune  emptied  her 
horn  of  plenty.  Thus  often  has  it  been  in  England's  story 
that  the  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory.  Nelson's 
last  signal  at  Trafalgar  was,  "England  expects  every 


240         ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 

man  to  do  his  duty,"  and  his  dying  words  were,  "Thank 
God,  I  have  done  my  duty. ' '  Trochaic  lines  of  different 
lengths  and  solemn  iambics  are  happily  mingled  in  this 
stanza  to  create  the  impression  desired. 

In  the  closing  stanza  the  emotion  of  the  poem  dies 
gradually  away  in  a  requiem  and  farewell.  The  dirge  of 
the  Dead  March  in  Saul  wails  in  the  people's  ears;  ashes 
to  ashes,  dust  to  dust;  God  accept  him,  Christ  receive 
him. 

ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON 
1 

Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation, 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a  mighty  nation, 
]\Iourning  when  their  leaders  fall,  5 

Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 


Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we  deplore? 

Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar. 

Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for,  10 

And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 

Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 


"Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall  (line  6) — Eight  eminent  army 
officers  acted  as  pall-bearers. 

In  streaming  London's  central  roar  (9)  —  St.  Paul's  is  near  the 
Bank  of  England  and  the  Exchange,  and  is  in  the  centre  of  the 
traffic  of  London. 


DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON  211 

3 

Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  an  universal  woe, 

Let  the  long  long  procession  go,  15 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it  grow, 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow ; 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 


Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 

Bememberiug  all  his  greatness  in  the  Past.  20 

No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 

With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 

0  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  mute : 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood, 

The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  resolute,  25 

"Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 

Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime. 

Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence. 

Great  in  council  and  great  in  war,  30 

Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 

Eich  in  saving  common-sense. 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 

In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew,  35 

O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men  drew. 


O  voice  from  which  their  omrnfi  all  men  drew  (36) — 'After  the 
battle  of  Waterloo,  Wellington  was  the  most  influential  personality  in 
all  the  world. 


242         ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 

0  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 

0  fall  'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 

Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  wincb  that  blev/ ! 

Such  Avas  he  whom  we  deplore.  40 

The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 

The  great  World- victor 's  victor  will  be  seen  no  more. 


All  is  over  and  done ; 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

England,  for  thy  son.  45 

Let  the  bell  be  toU'd. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river,  50 

There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 

Among  the  wuse  and  the  bold, 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd: 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds :  55 

Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon 'd  deeds. 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd: 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  che  heart  be  knoll  'd ; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem  roll  'd  60 


O  iron  nerve  (37)  — Wellington  was  known  as  the  "Iron  Duke." 
Under    the    cross    0}    f/oht    (40)  — The    cross    of    St.    Taul's. 
lirifjht  let  it  be,  etc.  (50)  — Wellington's  victories  Inscribed  in  gold 
letters  on   the   funeral   car. 


DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON  213 

Thro '  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross ; 

And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his  loss ; 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 

His  captain 's-ear  has  heard  them  boom  65 

Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom. 

When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 

Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame, 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain  taught 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim  70 

In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name 

Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 

In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 

A  man  of  well-attemper 'd  frame. 

0  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name,  75 

To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 

To  such  a  name, 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 

And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song ! 


"Who  is  he  that  eometh,  like  an  honour 'd  guest,  80 

With  banner  and  with  music,   with  soldier  and  with 

priest. 
With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  my  rest?"— 
Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 
Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 

Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous  man,  85 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 


The  voUeijing  cannon   (62) — The  minuto-giins  fired  at  his  funeral. 


244         ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 

Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes ; 

For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea  —  90 

His  foes  were  thine ;  he  kept  us  free ; 

0  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 

Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee ; 

For  this  is  England's  greatest  son,  95 

He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights, 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun ; 

This  is  he  that  far  away 

Against  the  mjTiads  of  Assaye 

Clash 'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won ;  100 

And  underneath  another  sun. 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 

Of  his  labour 'd  rampart-lines,  105 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew. 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms,  110 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 

Past  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Follow 'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamour  of  men,  115 


wasted  vinrs   (109)  —  Spanish  vineyards  —  and  Spain  herself  —  de- 
vastated  by   the  French  armies. 


DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON  245 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 

In  anger,  wheel  'd  on  Europe-shadowing  wings,  120 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings ; 

Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty 's  iron  crown 

On  that  loud  sabbath  shook  the  spoiler  down ; 

A  day  of  onsets  of  despair ! 

Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square  125 

Their  surging  charges  foam'd  themselves  away; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew ; 

Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 

Heaven  flash  'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray. 

And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and  overthrew.        130 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 

What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 

In  that  world's  earthquake,  Waterloo! 

Mighty  seaman,  tender  and  true, 

And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile,  135 

0  saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 

0  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 


Again  their  ravening  eagle  (119)  — Referring  to  Napoleon  after  his 
escape  from  Elba. 

Duty's  iron  crown  (122)  —  Napoleon  was  crowned  with  the  Iron 
Crown  of  Lombardy. 

That  loud  Sabhath  (123)  — Waterloo  was  fought  on  Sunday,  June 
18.  1815. 

mighty  seamen,  tender  and  true  (134) — Before  the  battle  of  the 
Baltic,  Nelson  wrote  a  prayer  in  which  he  prayed  that  the  British  arms 
might  be  distinguished  not  only  for  victory  but  for  humanity. 

The  silve-r-coasted  isle  (136)  — The  white  chalk  cliflfs  of  the  southern 
coast  of  England. 

Shaker  of  the  Baltic   (137) — Lord  Nelson. 


246        ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 

If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 

Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine, 

If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all,  140 

Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by  thine! 

And  thro '  the  centuries  let  a  people 's  voice 

In  full  acclaim, 

A  people 's  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame,  145 

A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

Attest  their  great  commander 's  claim 

With  honour,  honour,  honour,  honour  to  him, 

Eternal  honour  to  his  name.  150 


A  people 's  voice !  we  are  a  people  yet. 

Tho'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams  forget, 

Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless  Powers, 

Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and  roughly  set 

His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming  showers,         155 

We  have  a  voice  with  which  to  pay  the  debt 

Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 

To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept  it  ours. 

And  keep  it  ours,  0  God,  from  brute  control ! 

0  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the  soul  160 

Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole. 

And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom  sown 

Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne, 


Jaulc.ts  rowers  (153)  —  referring  to  insurrections  in  Austria  and 
Italy  and  revolutions  ia  Spain,  Toland,  and  Iluugarj',  following  the 
French  Kcvolution. 


DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON  247 

That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there  springs 

Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings !  165 

For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 

Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 

And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of  mind, 

Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns  be  just, 

But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust.  170 

Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts ; 

He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 

Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward  wall; 

His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 

For  ever ;  and  whatever  tempests  lour  175 

For  ever  silent ;  even  if  they  broke 

In  thunder,  silent ;  yet  remember  all 

He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who  spoke ; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 

Nor  palter 'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power;  180 

Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumour  How ; 

Thro '  either  babbling  world  of  high  and  low ; 

Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 

With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life ; 

Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe ;  185 

Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  rebuke 

All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the  right : 

Truth-teller  was  our  England 's  Alfred  named ; 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke ; 

Whatever  record  leap  to  light  190 

He  never  shall  be  shamed. 


temperate  kings  (1G5) — a  limitecl  monarchy. 

He  lade  you  guard,  etc.  (172) — Wellington  had  recommended,  in 
184S,  the  fortiflcalion  of  the  Channel  Islands  and  some  of  the  towns 
on  the  southern  coast  of  England. 


248         ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 

8 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 

Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 

Follow  'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 

He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands  195 

Lavish  Ilonour  shower 'd  all  her  stars, 

And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 

Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 

Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great. 

But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state.  200 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island-story 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory : 

He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 

For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 

Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes,  205 

He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 

Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 

All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory :  210 

He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 

On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands. 

Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has  won 

His  path  upward,  and  prevail 'd. 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scaled  215 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 


The  trave  0/  other  lands  (194)  — Seven  foreign  armies  were  repre- 
eented  at  the  funeral. 

Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn  (197)  — Fortuna,  the  Roman  goddess, 
Is  represented  as  holding  In  her  hand  the  "cornucopia"  or  horn  of 
plenty. 

2fot  once  or  twice  (201)  — many  times. 


DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON  249 

To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and  sun. 

Such  was  he :  his  work  is  done. 

But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure 

Let  his  great  example  stand  220 

Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 

And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman  pure ; 

Till  in  all  lands  and  thro '  all  human  story 

The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory. 

And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved  from  225 

shame 
For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
And  when  the  long-illumined  cities  flame, 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 
With  honour,  honour,  honour,  honour  to  him,  230 

Eternal  honour  to  his  name. 


Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see. 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain  235 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung. 

0  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and  brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung.  240 


The  land  whose  hearths  he  saved  from  shame  (225)  — He  prevented 
the    French    from    invading    England. 
For  (236  and  239)  —On  account  of. 


250         ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 

Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain! 

More  than  is  of  man's  degree 

Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 

At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 

Whom  we  see  not  we  revere ;  245 

We  revere,  and  we  refrain 

From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 

And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 

For  such  a  wise  humility 

As  befits  a  solemn  fane :  250 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 

The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 

Setting  toward  eternity, 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we. 

Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true  255 

There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 

Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 

And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 

For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 

And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore  260 

Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will ; 

Tho '  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads  roll 

Round  us,  each  with  different  powers. 

And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 

What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ?  265 

On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our  trust. 


Brawlinrj  memories  (248) — Welllngton'R  opposition  to  tho  Rpform 
Bill  of  18.32  aroused  intensely  bitter  feeling  against  him  among  tlio 
people.  But  Anally,  in  order  to  prevent  civil  war,  he  with  many 
other  peers  absented  themselves  from  the  Ilouse  of  Lords  and  thus 
permitted   the   Reform   Bill   to  become   law. 


DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON  251 

Hush,  tbc  Bead  March  wails  in  the  people's  ears: 

The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs  and  tears : 

The  black  earth  yawns :  the  mortal  disappears ; 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ;  270 

He  is  gone  who  seemed  so  great. — 

Gone ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 

Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 

Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 

Something  far  advanced  in  State,  275 

And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 

Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave  him. 

But  speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 

Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 

And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him,  280 

God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 

—  Alfred  Lord  Tennyson. 


The  sorroxi-ino  anthem  (CO) — and  the  Dead  March  (2G7) — "The 
music  at  St.  Paul's  included  the  'Nunc  Uimittis'  of  Beethoven  ;  a  dirge 
by  Mr.  Goss,  the  organist ;  the  'Dead  March'  in  Saul ;  an  anthem  from 
Mendelssohn's  'St.  Taul' ;  and  other  music  by  Croft  and  Purcell. 
When  the  service  ended,  the  Tower  guns  began  to  boom."  E.  A.  J. 
Marsh. 

Tennyson  wrote  this  ode  during  the  time  between  the 
death  of  Wellington,  September  14,  1852,  and  the  day 
of  the  Duke's  funeral,  November  18. 

Wordsworth's  Ode  to  Duty  should  be  read  in  connec- 
tion with  stanza  VIII. 


The  Lady  of  Shalott 


253 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT  255 


THE   LADY    OF    SHALOTT 

Any  attempt  to  explain  The  Lady  of  Shaloit  may  seem 
to  be  a  wholly  needless  enterprise.  Perhaps,  as  Profes- 
sor MacMechan  says,  ' '  the  part  of  wisdom  is  to  listen  like 
a  three-year  child"  to  this  strange  and  lovely  story  of  a 
far-off  age.  And  yet  Tennyson  himself  said  it  had  a 
meaning  deeper  than  that  of  a  fairy  story.  In  the 
Memoirs  by  his  son  occurs  this  passage : 

"The  key  to  this  tale  of  magic  symbolism  is  of  deep 
human  significance;  and  is  to  be  found  in  the  lines : 

Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed  ; 
*I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,'  said 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

"Canon  Ainger  in  his  Tennyson  for  the  Young  quotes 
the  following  interpretation  given  by  my  father: 

"  'The  newborn  love  for  something,  for  some  one  in 
the  wide  world  from  which  she  has  been  so  long  secluded, 
takes  her  out  of  the  region  of  shadows  into  that  of  reali- 
ties.' " 

The  poem  might  be  called  The  Soul's  Awakening. 

Stopford  Brooke's  comment  on  the  poem  is  in  harmony 
with  Tennyson's  own  explanation.     He  says: 

"WTiat  a  secluded  maid  sees  are  but  pictures,  but  the  hour 
comes  when  she  says,  'I  am  half  sick  of  shadows.'  To  know  that 
the  pictures  of  the  mind  are  shadows  is  to  be  wild  to  seek  reality. 
Then  if  love  comes,  hopeless  love,  all  the  world  of  mere  phantasy 
breaks  up,  and  the  actual  kills.  If  there  be  any  meaning  at  all  in 
this  piece  of  gossamer  fancy,  that  is  it,  and  like  all  Tennyson's 
meanings,  it  is  as  simple  as  day." 


256  THE  LADY  OF  SIIALOTT 

Another  symbolic  interpretation  sometimes  given  of 
this  poem  is  that  "it  shadows  forth  the  relations  which 
poetic  genius  should  sustain  to  the  world  for  whose 
spiritual  redemption  it  labors,  and  the  fatal  consequence 
of  its  being  seduced  by  the  world's  temptation  —  the  lust 
of  the  flesh,  and  the  lust  of  the  eyes,  and  the  pride 
life."  But  those  who  like  this  reading  of  its  meaning 
are  welcome  to  it. 

The  legend  is  a  very  old  one,  and  appears  in  many 
versions.  Tennyson's  poem  is  said  to  be  based  upon  an 
Italian  romance,  but  his  later  poem  of  Lancelot  and 
Elaine,  dealing  with  the  same  theme,  is  based  upon  Mal- 
ory's iliori  d' Arthur,  book  XVIII,  chapters  9-20,  in 
which  is  told  how  Elaine,  the  Fair  ]\Iaid  of  Astolat,  falls 
in  love  with  Sir  Lancelot,  and  dies  for  love  of  him : 

"Now  speak  we  of  the  fair  maiden  of  Astolat,  that  made  such 
sorrow  day  and  night,  that  she  never  slept,  cat,  nor  drank  ;  and 
ever  she  made  her  complaint  unto  Sir  Launcelot.  So  when  she 
had  thus  endured  a  ten  days,  that  she  feebled  so  that  she  must 
needs  pass  out  of  this  world,  then  she  shrived  her  clean,  and  re- 
ceived her  Creator.  And  ever  she  complained  still  upon  Sir 
Launcelot.  Then  her  ghostly  father  bade  her  leave  such  thoughts. 
Then  she  said.  Why  should  I  leave  such  thoughts?  am  I  not  an 
earthly  woman?  and  all  the  while  the  breath  is  in  my  body  I  may 
complain  me,  for  my  belief  is  I  do  none  offense,  though  I  love  an 
earthly  man,  and  I  take  God  to  my  record,  I  never  loved  none  but 
Sir  Launcelot  du  Lake,  nor  never  shall ;  and  a  pure  maiden  I  am 
for  him  and  for  all  other.  And  since  it  is  the  suflferauce  of  God 
that  I  shall  die  for  the  love  of  so  noble  a  knight,  I  beseach  the 
High  Father  of  heaven  to  have  mercy  upon  my  soul,  and  upon 
mine  innumerable  pains  that  I  suffered  may  be  allegianced  of  part 
of  my  sins.  For  sweet  Lord  Jesu,  said  the  fair  maiden,  I  take  thee 
to  record,  on  thee  I  was  never  great  offender  against  thy  laws,  but 
that  I  loved  this  noble  Lord  Sir  Launcelot  out  of  measure,  and  of 
myself,  good  Lord,  I  might  not  withstand  the  fervent  love  wherefor 
I  have  my  death.  And  then  she  called  her  father  Sir  Bernard, 
and  her  brother  Sir  I'irre,  and  heartily  she  i)rayed  her  father  that 
her  brother  might  write  a  letter  like  as  she  did  endite  it ;  and  so  her 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT  257 

father  granted  her.  And  M'hen  the  letter  was  written  word  by 
word  like  as  she  devised,  then  she  prayed  her  father  that  she 
might  be  watched  until  she  were  dead, —  And  while  my  body  is  hot, 
let  this  letter  be  put  in  my  right  hand,  and  my  hand  bound  fast 
to  the  letter  until  that  I  be  cold,  and  let  me  be  put  in  a  fair  bed, 
with  all  the  richest  clothes  that  I  have  about  me,  and  so  let  my 
bed,  and  all  my  richest  clothes,  be  laid  with  me  in  a  chariot  unto 
the  next  place  where  Thames  is,  and  there  let  me  be  put  within  a 
barget,  and  but  one  man  with  me,  such  as  you  trust  to  steer  me 
thither,  and  that  my  barget  be  covered  with  black  samite,  over  and 
over.  Thus,  father,  I  beseach  you  let  it  be  done.  So  her  father 
granted  it  her  faithfully  all  things  should  be  done  like  as  she  had 
devised.  Then  her  father  and  her  brother  made  great  dole,  for, 
when  this  was  done,  anon  she  died.  And  so  when  she  was  dead, 
the  corpse,  and  the  bed,  all  was  led  the  next  way  unto  Thames 
and  there  a  man,  and  the  corpse,  and  all,  were  put  into  Thames, 
and  so  the  man  steered  the  barget  unto  Westminster,  and  there  he 
rowed  a  great  while  or  any  espied  it.     .     .     . 

"Then  the  king  made  the  barget  to  be  holden  fast;  and  then 
the  king  and  the  queen  entered,  with  certain  knights  with  them. 
And  there  he  saw  the  fairest  woman  lie  in  a  rich  bed,  covered 
unto  her  middle  with  many  rich  clothes,  and  all  was  of  cross  of 
gold,  and  she  lay  as  though  she  had  smiled.  Tlien  the  queen  espied 
a  letter  in  her  right  hand,  and  told  it  to  the  king.  Theia  the  king 
took  it,  and  said.  Now  I  am  sure  this  letter  will  tell  what  she  was, 
and  why  she  is  come  hither.  Then  the  king  and  the  queen  went 
out  of  the  barget,  and  so  commanded  a  certain  man  to  wait  upon 
the  barget.  And  so  when  the  king  was  come  within  his  chamber, 
he  called  many  knights  about  him,  and  said  that  he  would  wit 
openly  what  was  written  within  that  letter.  Then  the  king  break  it, 
and  made  a  clerk  to  read  it ;  and  this  was  the  intent  of  the  letter : — 
Most  noble  knight.  Sir  Launcelot,  now  hath  death  made  us  two  at 
debate  for  your  love  ;  I  was  your  lover,  that  men  called  the  fair 
maiden  of  Astolat ;  therefore  unto  all  ladies  I  make  my  moan  ;  yet 
pray  for  my  soul,  and  bury  me  at  the  least,  and  offer  ye  my  mass- 
penny.  This  is  my  last  request.  And  a  clean  maiden  I  died,  I  take 
God  to  witness.  Pray  for  my  soul  Sir  Launcelot  as  thou  art  peer- 
less.—  This  was  all  the  substance  in  the  letter.  And  when  it  was 
read,  the  king,  the  queen,  and  all  the  knights  wept  for  pity  of  the 
doleful  complaints.  Then  was  Sir  Launcelot  sent  foi*.  And  when 
he  was  come.  King  Arthur  made  the  letter  to  be  read  to  him; 
and  when  Sir  Launcelot  heard  it  word  by  word,  he  said.  My  Lord 
Arthur,  wit  ye  well  I  am  right  heavy  of  the  death  of  this  fair 
damsel.  God  knoweth  I  was  never  causer  of  her  death  by  my 
willing,  and  that  I  will  report  me  to  her  own  brother ;  here  he  is.  Sir 
Levaine.    I  will  not  say  nay  said  Sir  Launcelot,  but  that  she  was 


258  THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT 

both  fair  and  good,  and  much  I  was  beholden  unto  her,  but  she 
loved  me  out  of  measure.    .    .    . 

"Then  said  the  king  unto  Sir  Launcelot,  It  will  be  your  worship 
that  j'e  oversee  that  she  be  interred  worshipfully.  Sir,  said  Sir 
Launcelot,  that  shall  be  done  as  I  can  best  devise.  And  so  many 
knights  went  hither  to  behold  that  fair  maiden.  And  so  upon  the 
morn  she  was  interred  richly,  and  Sir  Launcelot  offered  her  mass- 
penny,  and  all  the  knights  of  the  Table  Round  that  were  there  at 
that  time  offered  with   Sir  Launcelot." 

The  careful  student  of  The  Lady  of  Shalott  will  dis- 
cover a  number  of  details  to  deepen  his  interest:  the 
magic  web,  common  in  both  Greek  and  northern  mythol- 
ogy;  the  broken  mirror,  to  which  an  evil  omen  is  at- 
tached in  many  parts  of  the  world ;  the  burial-ship,  bear- 
ing the  dead  to  sea,  which  was  not  an  uncommon  custom 
among  the  Vikings;  the  three  paces,  a  common  supersti- 
tion to  ward  off  misfortune ;  the  castle-ruins  and  crumb- 
ling towers,  emblems  of  decay ;  the  funeral  and  the  wed- 
ding —  death  and  love  —  together,  which  made  the  Lady 
say  that  she  was  sick  of  shadows.  Notice,  too,  that  the 
movement  is  doivn  to  Camelot:  Fate,  the  river,  and  all 
upon  the  banks  of  the  river,  move  downward  together. 
And  still  they  move  in  the  imagination  of  every  reader, 
though  the  fairy  Lady  has  passed  these  hundred  years. 
"God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace." 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT 

Part  1 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 

Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 

That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky; 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT  250 

And  throiigli  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower  'd  Camelot ;  5 

And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 
The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver,  10 

Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowdng  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers,  15 

Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veiled, 

Slide  the  heavy  barges  trailed  20 

By  slow  horses ;  and  unbailed 

The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sailed, 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot: 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand?  25 

Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley. 


Camelot  (5)  — The  city  of  Arthur's  court,  probably  the  village  of 
Queen  Camel,  in  Somersetshire.  Notice  that  Malory  has  Winchester 
instead  of  Camelot. 


260  THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT 

Hear  a  song  tliat  echoes  cheerly  30 

From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  towered  Camelot : 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers,  "  'Tis  the  fairy  35 

Lady  of  Shalott." 

Part  2 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 

A  magic  web  with  colours  gay. 

She  has  heard  a  whisper  say 

A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay  40 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
iShe  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.  45 

And  moving  thro '  a  mirror  clear. 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year. 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear: 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near. 

Winding  down  to  Camelot;  50 

There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls. 


Thro'  a  mirror  clear,  etc.  {line  4G)  —  "The  mirror,  which  always 
stood  behind  the  tapestry,  whose  face  was  turned  to  the  glass,  so 
that  the  worker  could  see  the  effect  of  her  stitches  without  moving 
from  her  seat.  Every  view  which  the  early  part  of  the  poem  presents 
is  cast  upon  the  mirror"  —  Arthur  Waugh  in  Life  of  Tennyson. 

shadows  of  the  world  (48) — indistinct  reflections  of  the  busy 
world  OQ  the  banks  of  the  river. 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT  261 

And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 
Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 


Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad,  55 

An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 

Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 

Or  long-haired  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  towered  Gamelot; 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue  60 

The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two : 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 

To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights,  65 

For  often  thro '  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Gamelot; 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed :  70 

*  *  I  am  half  sick  of  shadows, ' '  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


Part  3 

A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 

He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves ; 

The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves,  75 

And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 


262  THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  for  ever  kneeled 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field,  80 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter 'd  free, 

Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 

Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy, 

The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily  85 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot ; 
And  from  his  blazon 'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armour  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shallot.  90 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd  shone  the  saddle-leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'd  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot ;  95 

As  often  thro'  the  purple  night. 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 

Moves  over  still  Shalott. 


J)old  Sir  Lancelot  (77) — Lancelot,  the  chief  knight  of  Arthur's 
court,  was  famous  for  his  strength,  chivalrj-.  and  romclincss.  In 
discussing  the  attention  given  in  the  middle  ages  to  dress  and  armour, 
Ruskln  says,  "Of  all  the  beautiful  things  which  the  eyes  of  mea 
could  fall  upon,  in  the  world  about  them,  the  most  beautiful  must 
have  been  a  young  knight  riding  out  in  the  morning  sunshine,  and  in 
faithful  hope."  Such  a  picture,  Tennyson  draws  of  Lancelot  in 
part   III   of  this  poem. 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT  263 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd;  100 

On  burnish 'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow  'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Caraelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river  105 

He  flash  'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 

She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room,  110 

She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 

She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide; 
The  mirror  crack 'd  from  side  to  side;  115 

"The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Part  4 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 


In  the  stormy  east-tcind  straining  (118)  — All  readers  will  notice 
of  course  not  only  the  change  of  seasons  from  midsummer  to  autumn 
but  a  corresponding  change  of  meter  and  of  "tone-color"  in  the  poem, 
but  Rowe  and  Webb  point  out  a  significant  similarity  In  Milton's 
Paradise  Lost,  when  Adam  and  Eve  had  transgressed  the  command 
on  which  their  happiness  depended.  Milton  describes  nature  as  mourn- 
ing over  their  fall : 

Sky  loured,  and,  muttering  thunder,  some  sad  drops 
Wept  at  completing  of  the  mortal  Sin. 

Was  the  Lady  of  Shalott  another  Eve  who  suffered  death  because 
she  disobeyed  the  demand  not  to  taste  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  of 
Knowledge  ? 


264  THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT 

The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining,       120 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower 'd  Camelot; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  Avillow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote  125 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse 

Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 

Seeing  all  his  own  mischance  — 

With  a  glassy  countenance  130 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.  135 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot ;  140 

And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy,  145 

Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT  265 

And  tier  eyes  were  darken  'd  wholly 

Turn'd  to  tower 'd  Camelot. 
For  ere  she  reach  'd  upon  the  tide  150 

The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery,  155 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 

Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high. 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame,  160 

And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 

And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 

Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer ;  165 

And  they  crossed  themselves  for  fear. 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot. 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space : 
He  said,  "She  has  a  lovely  face; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace,  170 

TheLady  of  Shalott." 

—  Alfred  Lord  Tennyson. 


Merlin  and  the  Gleam 


267 


MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM  269 

MERLIN   AND    THE    GLEAM 

Tennyson's  Merlin  and  the  Gleam  is  an  allegory  of 
the  poetic  career  of  its  author.  Moreover,  if  one  wants 
to  find  in  it  the  great  less.on  of  faithfulness  to  high 
ideals,  such  a  lesson  is  not  far  to  seek. 

Merlin  and  the  Gleam  was  published  in  Tennyson's 
last  volume,  1889,  when  he  was  eighty  years  of  age.  In 
some  respects  it  is  as  remarkable  a  piece  of  work  as  that 
other  and  more  familiar  old-age  poem,  Crossing  the  Bar, 
published  in  the  same  volume. 

Merlin  was  the  name  of  an  ancient  British  prophet 
and  magician  about  whom  legends  arose  as  early  as  the 
fifth  century.  He  was  the  great  enchanter  of  the  time. 
He  appears  in  English,  French,  Italian,  and  German 
versions  of  romances,  in  both  prose  and  verse.  The  best 
known  Merlin  legends  are  those  in  Malory's  Morte 
d' Arthur  and  Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King. 

One  of  the  earliest  legends  of  Merlin  was  to  the  effect 
that  this  old  magician  was  beguiled  by  an  enchantress 
called  Nimue,  who  led  him  as  she  liked.  Now  Nimue 
means  "The  Gleam." 

Tennyson  was  interested  from  boyhood  in  all  of  the 
old  Arthurian  legends,  and  the  story  of  Merlin  particu- 
larly had  thrown  its  magic  over  him  —  so  his  son  Hallam 
says.  The  same  authority  (in  the  admirable  Macmillan 
&  Company  edition  of  Tennyson's  Works,  London,  1908) 
says  that ' '  for  those  who  eared  to  know  about  his  literary 
history  he  wrote  Merlin  and  the  Gleam." 


270  MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM 

Merlin,  the  old  magician  and  prophet,  is  Tennyson 
himself. 

"The  Gleam  signifies,"  as  his  son  says,  "that  spirit 
of  poetry  which  bade  him  know  his  power  and  follow 
throughout  his  work  a  pure  and  high  ideal  with  a  simple 
and  single  devotedness  and  a  desire  to  ennoble  the  life 
of  the  world,  and  which  helped  him  through  doubts  and 
difficulties  to  'endure  as  seeing  Ilim  Who  is  invisible.'  " 
Tennyson  says  of  his  poem  further:  "In  the  story  of 
Merlin  and  Nimue  I  have  read  that  Nimue  means  'The 
Gleam'  —  which  signifies  in  my  poem  the  higher  poetic 
imagination.  Verse  4  is  the  early  imagination ;  Verse  5 
alludes  to  the  Pastorals. ' ' 

Tennyson  all  of  his  life  followed  the  light  of  this  high 
poetic  ideal  just  as  Merlin  of  old  followed  Nimue,  the 
Gleam.  This  is  the  interpretation  of  the  allegory  in  the 
IX)em. 

In  Stanza  1  he  speaks  of  himself  as  the  "gray  Magi- 
cian" whom  the  youth  is  Watching  with  eyes  of  wonder 
and  admiration  that  his  great  power  in  the  magic  of 
words  and  thoughts  should  remain  so  full  and  strong  at 
so  great  an  age.    He  had  come  to  be  the  modern  Merlin. 

In  Stanza  2  he  tells  how  the  old  wizard,  the  ancient 
Merlin,  had  found  him  in  boyhood  ("at  sunrise")  and 
taught  him  magic,  and  how  the  Gleam  floated  before  him 
and  all  around  him,  "moving  to  melody."  Tennyson 
did  in  a  very  rare  and  very  beautiful  way,  even  in  his 
early  verses,  master  the  art  of  melody. 

The  croak  of  the  raven,  in  Stanza  3,  was  the  harsh 
voice  of  criticism  of  those  who  were  not  sympathetic. 
'  *  Still  the  inward  voice  told  him  not  to  be  faint-hearted 


MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM  271 

but  to  follow  his  ideal.  And  by  the  delight  in  his  own 
romantic  fancy  and  by  the  harmonies  of  Nature,  'the 
warble  of  water'  and  the  'cataract  music  of  falling  tor- 
rents,' the  inspiration  of  the  poet  was  renewed,"  says 
Hallam  Tennyson.  The  poet  himself  says  in  one  of  his 
notes,  already  quoted,  that  Stanza  4  is  the  early  imagina- 
tion and  that  Stanza  5  refers  to  his  pastoral  poems, 
published  a  little  later.  The  latter  stanza  is  a  charming 
description  of  his  poems  of  country  scenes. 

The  Gleam  then  led  him,  Stanza  6,  to  tell  the  story  of 
King  Arthur  and  his  knights  in  The  Idylls  of  the  King, 
"the  city  and  palace  of  Arthur  the  King."  The  Gleam 
rested  on  the  forehead  of  Arthur  the  blameless  because 
he  was  the  central  figure  of  The  Idylls. 

The  next  stanza  refers  to  the  death  of  Arthur  Hallam, 
for  whom  In  Memoriam  was  written.  The  death  of  Ar- 
thur Hallam  affected  him  more  than  any  other  experi- 
ence in  his  life  and  plunged  him  into  the  very  depth  of 
abiding  sorrow,  and  the  Gleam  "waned  to  a  wintry 
glimmer"  and  drew  to  the  dark  Valley  of  the  Shadow 
of  Death.  But  even  this  shadow  changed,  slowly  bright- 
ening, clothed  with  the  Gleam.  Hallam  Tennyson  points 
out  that  his  father,  in  Stanza  7,  unites  the  two  Arthurs 
—  the  Arthur  of  the  Idylls  and  Arthur  Hallam,  "the 
man  he  held  as  half  divine." 

Then  we  have  the  two  splendid  closing  stanzas,  in 
which  the  Gleam  gets  broader  and  brighter  for  the  poet 
in  his  eighty  years,  and  he,  though  old  and  weary,  is 
eager  to  follow.  And  wherever  the  Gleam  passed, 
whether  over  hamlet  or  city  or  church  or  grave,  the 
Gleam  would  make  it  break  into  bloom!    Such  are  the 


272  MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM 

magic  gifts  of  the  imagination.  And  so  to  tbe  edge  of 
life  he  comes,  to  the  land's  last  limit,  and  there  on  the 
borders  of  the  boundless  ocean,  on  the  hither  verge  of 
Heaven,  hovers  the  Gleam  —  the  Light  which  he  has  fol- 
lowed from  childhood. 

And  this  Gleam  is  not  an  earthly  beacon,  not  of  the 
sunlight,  not  of  the  moonlight,  not  of  the  starlight.  The 
closing  lines  of  the  poem,  even  as  the  opening  lines,  are 
addressed  to  the  young  mariner  of  life: 

Call  your  companions, 
Launch  your  vessel, 
And  crowd  your  canvas, 
And,  ere  it  vanishes 
Over  the  margin. 
After  it,  follow  it, 
Follow  The  Gleam. 


ANALYSIS. 

I.  The  aged  poet,  speaking  of  himself  as  Merlin  or  the  Jlagi- 

cian,  addresses  a  young  man.     Lines  1-10. 
IL  In  his  childhood  the  poet  followed  the  poetic  light   (11-23). 
III.  But  the  Raven  of  Criticism  croaked  and  the  poet  was  silent 

for  a  while  (24-34). 
IV.  The  poetry  of  his  young  manhood  (35-48). 
V.  His  pastoral  poems  —  the  English  Idyls  (49-62). 
VI.  The  Idylls  of  the  King  (63-75). 
VII.  In  Memoriam    (76-95). 
VIIL  Following  the  Gleam  in  his  old  age  (96-120). 

IX.  The  young  man  is  urged  to  follow  his  ideal  before  it  van- 
ishes among  the  cares  of  life  (121-132). 


MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM  273 


MERLIN  AND   THE   GLEAM. 


0  young  Mariner, 
You  from  the  haven 
Under  the  sea-cliff, 
You  that  are  watching 

The  gray  Magician  5 

With  eyes  of  wonder, 

1  am  Merlin, 
And  I  am  dying, 
I  am  Merlin 

Who  follow  The  Gleam.  10 


Mighty  the  Wizard 

Who  found  me  at  sunrise 

Sleeping,  and  woke  me 

And  learned  me  Magic! 

Great  the  Master,  15 

And  sweet  the  Magic, 

When  over  the  valley, 

In  early  summers, 

Over  the  Mountain, 

On  human  faces,  20 

And  all  around  me, 


learned  me  Magic!  (line  14)  —  an  archaic  use  of  "learned"  for 
tanght.  Shakespeare,  Spenser  and  other  old  writers  use  it  in  that 
sense. 


274  MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM 

]\Ioving  to  melody, 
Floated  the  Gleam. 


Once  at  the  croak  of  a  Raven  who  crost  it 
A  barbarous  people,  25 

Blind  to  the  magic, 
And  deaf  to  the  melody, 
Snarl'd  at  and  cursed  me. 
A  demon  vext  me, 

The  light  retreated,  30 

The  landskip  darken 'd, 
The  melody  deaden 'd. 
The  master  whisper 'd 
''Follow  The  Gleam." 

4: 

Then  to  the  melody,  35 

Over  a  wilderness 

Gliding,  aud  glancing  at 

Elf  of  the  woodland. 

Gnome  of  the  cavern, 

Griffen  and  Giant,  40 

And  dancing  of  Fairies 

In  desolate  hollows. 

And  wraiths  of  the  mountain, 

And  rolling  of  dragons 

By  warble  of  water,  45 

Or  cataract  music 

Of  falling  torrents, 

Flitted  The  Gleam. 


MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM  275 


Down  from  the  mountain 

And  over  the  level,  50 

And  streaming  and  shining  on 

Silent  river, 

Silvery  willow, 

Pasture  and  plowland, 

Horses  and  oxen,  55 

Innocent  maidens, 

Garrulous  children. 

Homestead  and  harvest, 

Reaper  and  gleaner. 

And  rough  ruddy  faces  60 

Of  lowly  labour, 

Slided  The  Gleam.  — 


Then,  with  a  melody 

Stronger  and  statelier, 

Led  me  at  length  65 

To  the  city  and  palace 

Of  Arthur  the  king; 

Touch 'd  at  the  golden 

Cross  of  the  churches, 

Flash 'd  on  the  Tournament,  70 

Flicker 'd  and  bicker 'd 

From  helmet  to  helmet, 

And  last  on  the  forehead 

Of  Arthur  the  blameless 

Rested  The  Gleam.  75 


276  MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM 


Clouds  and  darkness 

Closed  upon  Camelot; 

Arthur  had  vanish 'd 

I  knew  not  whither, 

The  king  who  loved  me,  80 

And  cannot  die; 

For  out  of  the  darkness 

Silent  and  slowly 

The  Gleam,  that  had  waned  to  a  wintry 

glimmer 
On  icy  fallow  85 

And  faded  forest. 
Drew  to  the  valley 
Named  of  the  shadow, 
And  slowly  brightening 

Out  of  the  glimmer,  90 

And  slowly  moving  again  to  melody 
Yearningly  tender, 
Fell  on  the  shadow, 
No  longer  a  shadow, 
But  clothed  with  The  Gleam.  95 


8 


And  broader  and  brighter 
The  Gleam  flying  onward, 
Wed  to  the  melody. 
Sang  thro'  the  world; 


And  cannot  die;  (81)  — the  old  legends  said  that  King  Arthur  could 
not  die,  but  would  return  to  Camelot. 


MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM  277 

Aud  slower  and  fainter,  100 

Old  and  weary, 

But  eager  to  follow, 

I  saw,  whenever 

In  passing  it  glanced  upon 

Hamlet  or  city,  105 

That  under  the  Crosses 

The  dead  man's  garden, 

The  mortal  hillock, 

Would  break  into  blossom; 

And  so  to  the  land's  110 

Last  limit  I  came  — 

And  can  no  longer. 

But  die  rejoicing, 

For  thro'  the  Magic 

Of  Him  the  Mighty,  115 

Who  taught  me  in  childhood, 

There  on  the  border 

Of  boundless  Ocean, 

And  all  but  in  Heaven 

Hovers  The  Gleam.  120 


Not  of  the  sunlight, 

Not  of  the  moonlight. 

Not  of  the  starlight ! 

0  young  Mariner, 

Down  to  the  haven,  125 

Call  your  companions, 


The  dead  man's  garden,  (107)  — a  cemetery. 


278  MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM 

Launch  your  vessel, 

And  crowd  your  canvas, 

And,  ere  it  vanishes 

Over  the  margin,  130 

After  it,  follow  it, 

Follow  The  Gleam. 

—  Alfred  Lord  Tennyson. 


Andrea  Del  Sarto 


279 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO  281 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 

In  the  Pitti  Gallery  in  Florence  there  is  a  portrait  of 
the  artist  Andrea  del  Sarto  and  his  wife,  Lucrezia, 
painted  by  the  artist  himself.  The  two  are  seated  at  the 
window  opening  toward  the  picturesque  old  town  of  Fie- 
sole,  three  miles  to  the  west.  The  artist's  right  arm  rests 
upon  the  shoulder  of  his  wife  and  his  left  hand  is  mak- 
ing a  mild  appealing  gesture  in  the  attitude  of  one  talk- 
ing. He  seems  to  be  speaking  half  to  her  and  half  to 
himself.  Lucrezia  seems  not  to  be  listening  to  anything 
he  says :  her  thoughts  are  elsewhere.  She  is  a  beautiful 
woman  physically,  but  wholly  wanting  in  intellectual  or 
spiritual  expression;  there  is  no  sign  of  love  or  con- 
science. Lucrezia  has  red-brown  hair,  there  is  a  gold 
chain  about  her  neck,  and  she  holds  a  letter  in  her  hand. 
Andrea's  face  is  refined,  melancholy,  weak,  helpless, 
weary.  A  gray  tone  pervades  the  picture,  and  one  can 
not  look  upon  it  without  feeling  that  here  is  the  story 
of  a  soul's  tragedy. 

Browning  lived  across  the  street  from  this  picture,  and 
the  picture,  together  with  the  story  of  Andrea's  life,  as 
told  by  George  Vasari,  in  his  Lives  of  the  Most  Eminent 
Italian  Painters,  furnished  him  with  the  material  for 
his  poem  Andrea  del  Sarto.  The  poem  is,  in  fact,  a 
commentary  upon  the  picture.  John  Kenyon,  Mrs. 
Browning's  cousin,  had  asked  Browning  to  get  for  him  a 
copy  of  the  picture.  Not  being  able  to  find  one.  Brown- 
ing wrote  for  him  this  poem  instead. 

Andrea  del  Sarto  (1486-1531)  lived  at  Florence  during 


282  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 

the  great  time  of  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael,  and  Leonardo 
da  Vinci.  He  was  known  as  "the  faultless  painter," 
because  his  drawing  and  his  coloring  were  so  perfect. 
But  though  he  was  a  faultless  painter  he  was  a  weak 
character.  He  fell  in  love  with  Lucrezia,  the  beautiful 
but  not  very  reputable  wife  of  a  cap-maker,  and  after 
her  husband's  death  married  her.  She  delighted  in  trap- 
ping the  hearts  of  other  men  besides  Andrea,  but  al- 
though he  knew  her  faults  he  had  not  the  power  to 
release  himself  from  her.  She  had  no  appreciation  of 
his  art  or  interest  in  it.  Under  her  spell  he  neglected 
his  work  and  ceased  to  provide  for  his  needy  parents. 
But  certain  pictures  of  his  had  attracted  the  attention 
of  King  Francis  of  France  and  he  was  invited  to  go 
and  paint  at  the  French  court.  A  letter  from  Lucrezia 
called  him  back  to  Florence.  The  King  gave  him  leave 
to  go,  Andrea  taking  an  oath  on  the  gospels  to  return 
within  a  few  months.  The  King  commissioned  him  to 
buy  certain  works  of  art  in  Florence  and  entrusted  him 
with  the  money  to  pay  for  them.  Andrea  did  not  return 
to  France,  nor  did  he  purchase  the  works  of  art  for  the 
King,  but  instead  he  used  the  money  in  building  a  house 
for  Lucrezia  —  the  one  at  whose  window  they  are  sitting 
in  the  picture.  ''The  prayers  and  tears  of  his  wife  had 
more  power  than  his  own  necessities,  or  the  faith  wliich 
he  had  pledged  to  the  king,"  says  Vasari,  who  was  a 
pupil  of  Andrea.  Lucrezia  survived  her  husband  forty 
years.  One  day,  a  year  before  her  death,  when  an  artist 
was  copying  one  of  her  husband's  pictures  in  the  court 
of  one  of  the  churches,  an  old  woman  of  eighty  stopped 
to  speak  to  him  on  her  way  to  mass,  and  pointing  to  the 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO  283 

figure  of  the  handsome  young  matron  in  the  picture  told 
him  that  this  was  her  portrait  and  that  she  was  Lucrezia, 
the  widow  of  the  great  painter. 

The  criticism  of  Andrea  del  Sarto  as  a  painter,  by 
John  Addington  Symonds  {The  Renaissance  in  Italy  — 
The  Fine  Arts,  p.  497),  has  direct  bearing  upon  the 
meaning  of  Browning's  poem.    He  says: 

"The  Italians^ called  him  '11  pittore  senza  errore,'  or  the  faultless 
painter.  What  they  meant  by  this  must  have  been  that  in  technical 
requirements  of  art  ...  he  was  above  criticism.  As  a  colorist 
he  vrent  further  and  produced  more  beautiful  effects  than  any 
Florentine  before  him.  .  .  .  What  he  lacked  was  the  most  pre- 
cious gift  —  inspiration,  depth  of  emotion,  energy  of  thought.  .  .  . 
The  story  that  his  wife,  a  worthless  woman,  sat  for  his  Madonnas, 
and  the  legends  of  his  working  for  money  to  meet  pressing  needs, 
seemed  justified  by  numbers  of  his  paintings,  faulty  in  their  fault- 
lessness  and  want  of  spirit.  Still  after  making  these  deductions, 
we  must  allow  that  Andrea  del  Sarto  not  unworthily  represents 
the  golden  age  of  Florence." 

Now  let  us  read  the  poem.  A  careful  study  of  it  will 
be  profitable  for  at  least  three  reasons :  It  is  an  excellent 
example  of  Browning's  method  of  dramatic  monologue 
in  revealing  a  human  soul  by  showing  his  readers  a  cross- 
section  of  that  soul  at  a  crucial  moment ;  it  shows  us  his 
attitude  toward  the  secret  of  great  art ;  it  shows  us,  indi- 
rectly, his  interpretation  of  life.  For  with  Browning, 
art  and  the  art  of  life  have  the  same  word  at  the  heart 
of  them,  and  that  word  is  ''aspiration"  —  not  fulfillment, 
but  infinite  and  unattained  aspiration,  and  the  struggle 
that  accompanies  it. 

"Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 
Or  what's  a  heaven  for?" 

"  'Tis  a  life-long  toil  till  our  lump  bo  leaven  — 

The  better!    What's   come   to   perfection   perishes. 
Things  learned  on  earth,   we  shall  practice  in  heaven." 


284  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 


ANALYSIS  OF  TOE  POEM 


Scene  —  Andrea  del  Sarto  and  his  wife,  Lucrezia,  are 
seated  at  the  window  of  the  studio  opening  over  Florence 
toward  Fiesole.  It  is  an  evening  in  autumn.  Andrea 
is  speaking,  and  the  poem  is  a  monologue  throughout. 

Mood  — ' '  A  common  grayness  silvers  everything, ' '  and 
this  is  the  prevailing  tone  of  the  poem.  It  is  autumn  in 
the  picture  and  autumn  in  the  speaker's  heart. 

Lucrezia's  Character  — The  wife's  personality  is 
clearly  presented  in  such  lines  as  4,  23-32,  38,  54-56, 
74-75,  117-132,  199-200,  219,  222,  and  241-243. 

Andrea  entreats  Lucrezia  to  sit  with  him,  for  he  is 
weary,  discouraged.  He  tells  her  if  she  will  do  so  he 
will  to-morrow  paint  the  picture  to  supply  her  with  the 
money  which  she  is  demanding  of  him  for  one  of  her 
friends.  In  her  smile  he  sees  the  picture  he  is  to  paint  — 
its  tone,  sentiment,  atmosphere,  and  harmony  (lines 
1-50). 

He  tells  with  what  ease  and  perfection  he  does  his 
work  —  in  this  respect  how  superior  he  is  to  his  associ- 
ates. Of  course  she  does  not  understand  or  care  to 
understand  about  his  art,  but  she  can  hear  when  other 
people  praise  it  (50-77). 

But  he  recognizes  their  superiority  over  him  because 
there  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them,  because  they 
reach  a  heaven  that's  shut  to  him.  Pie  can  paint  all  he 
sees,  but  they  show  in  their  less  finished  work  that  their 
vision  is  higher  than  his.  Their  reach  exceeds  their 
grasp ;  his  does  not.     If  he  had  their  vision,  combined 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO  285 

with  his  own  skill,  he  might  have  over-topped  the  world 
(78-103)  . 

He  illustrates  this  by  pointing  out  in  the  room  a  picture 
by  Raphael  ("the  Urbanite"),  faulty  in  drawing  but 
with  its  soul  right.  Had  you  but  urged  me  onward, 
brought  me  soul  and  inspiration  as  well  as  beauty,  he  says 
to  Lucrezia,  I  might  have  risen  side  by  side  with  Raphael 
and  Michael  Angelo  (104-131). 

But  perhaps,  after  all,  he  says,  it  is  God's  will.  Then 
he  half  blames  himself  —  perhaps  he  did  not  have  the 
will  to  rise.  Neither  Raphael  nor  Angelo  had  a  wife  to 
urge  him  on  (132-144). 

Then  he  refers  to  the  time  when  he  painted  for  the 
King  of  France  —  that  glorious  time,  when  under  the 
smile  of  the  King  and  the  Court  he  was  able  to  "leave 
the  ground"  and  put  on  for  a  brief  time  the  glory  that 
abides  constantly  with  Raphael.  Those  were  his  kingly 
days,  but  Lucrezia  called  him  home.  He  lost  his  oppor- 
tunity, but  he  is  satisfied;  men  will  understand  (145- 
182). 

He  recalls  what  Angelo  said  about  him  once  to  Raphael 
a  long  time  ago :  praise  which  he  has  treasured  in  his 
heart,  but  which  Lucrezia  does  not  at  all  appreciate,  for 
she  immediately  forgets  who  it  was  that  had  praised  her 
husband.  Then  he  refers  again  to  Raphael's  defective 
drawing,  and  proceeds  to  correct  it,  but  instantly  erases 
his  correction  (183-200). 

The  clock  strikes:  they  have  been  sitting  an  hour. 
The  autumn  evening  deepens.  He  begs  for  more  love  and 
asks  her  to  go  from  the  studio  into  the  house  —  "the 
melancholy  little  house  ihey  built  with  King  Francis' 


286  ANI)REA  DEL  SARTO 

money  to  be  so  gay  with."  But  she  is  restless:  her 
"cousin"  waits  outside  for  her,  Andrea  says  he  will 
sit  the  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out  and  muse  how, 
if  he  were  back  in  France,  he  would  paint  one  more  pic- 
ture worthy  of  Michael  Angelo's  praise.  Let  the 
"cousin"  wait  until  to-miorrow  —  he  shall  Ihave  iiihe 
money  to  pay  his  gambling  debt  ("the  thirteen  scudi  for 
the  ruff")  (201-243). 

The  monologue  closes  in  a  mood  of  despair.  The  artist 
resigns  himself  to  his  state  and  excuses  his  treatment  of 
his  parents  —  one  can't  have  everything  or  be  every- 
thing. But  he  craves  one  chance  more,  the  chance  to 
paint  one  of  the  four  walls  of  the  New  Jerusalem: 
one  for  Leonardo,  one  for  Raphael,  one  for  Michael 
Angelo,  and  the  other  for  him.  But  he  recognizes  that  it 
is  impossible,  for  "there's  still  Lucrezia,"  and  for  her 
sake  he  will  give  up  the  chance.  They  may  paint  the 
walls  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  he  never  can.  He  accepts 
fate  now,  but  fate  which  his  will  is  responsible  for  (244- 
267). 

ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 

(called  "the  faultless  painter") 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more. 

No,  my  Lucrezia !  bear  with  me  for  once : 

Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 

You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart  ? 

I'll  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear,        5 

Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 

Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price. 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO  287 

Aud  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 

When  next  it  takes  mine.    Will  it  ?  tenderly  ? 

Oh,  I'll  content  him,  —  but  to-morrow,  Love!  10 

I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  tliink. 

This  evening  more  than  usual :  and  it  seems 

As  if  —  forgive  now  —  should  you  let  me  sit 

Here  by  the  window,  with  your  hand  in  mine, 

And  look  a  half-hour  forth  on  Fiesole,  15 

Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 

Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 

I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 

Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.    Let  us  try. 

To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this !  20 

Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 

And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 

Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither;  you  must  serve 

For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require : 

It  saves  a  model.    So !  keep  looking  so  —  25 

My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds ! 

—  How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 

Even  to  put  the  pearl  there !  oh,  so  sweet  — 

My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybodj^'s  moon. 

Which  everybodj^  looks  on  and  calls  his,  30 

And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 

While  she  looks  —  no  one's:  very  dear,  no  less. 

You  smile?  why,  there's  my  picture  ready  made, 

There's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony! 

A  common  grayness  silvers  everything,  —  35 

All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 


It  saves  a  model    (25) — Lncrezia's   face  appears   in  many   of  her 
•husband's   most   famous   pictures. 


288  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 

—  You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 
(That's  gone,  you  know)  — but  I,  at  every  point; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 

To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole.  40 

There's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top; 

That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 

Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside ; 

The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden ;  days  decrease 

And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything.  —  45 

Eh  ?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape, 

As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 

And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 

A  twilight-piece.    Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 

How  strange  now,  looks  the  life  he  makes  us  lead ;         50 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are ! 

I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter :  let  it  lie ! 

This  chamber  for  example  —  turn  your  head  — 

All  that's  behind  us!    You  don't  understand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art,  55 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak : 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 

—  It  is  the  thing,  Love !  so  such  things  shjould  be  — 
Behold  Madonna !  —  I  am  bold  to  say. 

I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know,  60 

What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 

I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep  — 

Do  easily,  too  —  when  I  say,  perfectly, 

I  do  not  boast,  perhaps:  yourself  are  judge, 

Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week ;  65 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 

At  any  rate  't  is  easy,  all  of  it ! 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO  289 

No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's  long  past: 

I  do  what  many  dream  of,  all  their  lives, 

—  Dream  ?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do,  70 

And  fail  in  doing.    I  could  count  twenty  such 

On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town, 

Who  strive  —  you  don 't  know  how  the  others  strive 

To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 

Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat,  —  75 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Someone  sa3''s, 

(T  know  his  name,  no  matter)  — so  much  less! 

Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia :  I  am  judged. 

There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 

In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and  stopped-up  80 

brain,  — 
Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 
This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand  of  mine. 
Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves,  I  know, 
Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's  shut  to  me, 
Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough,  85 

Tho'  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world. 
My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 
The  sudden  blood  of  these  men !  at  a  word  — 
Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 
I,  painting  for  myself  and  to  myself,  90 

Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 
Or  their  praise  either.    Somebody  remarks 
Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 
His  hue  mistaken ;  what  of  that  1  or  else, 
Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered ;  what  of  that?  95 


Someone  says   (7G)  —  Michael  Angclo. 

MoreJlo    (93)  —  A   mountain   north   of  Florence. 


290  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 

Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain  care? 

Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 

Or  what's  a  heaven  for?    All  is  silver-gray, 

Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art :  the  worse ! 

I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain,  100 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 

"Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 

Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world !"  No  doubt. 

Yonder 's  a  work  done,  of  that  famous  youth 

The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago.  105 

( 'T  is  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 

Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 

Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 

Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him, 

Above  and  thro'  his  art  —  for  it  gives  way ;  110 

That  arm  is  wrongly  put  —  and  there  again  — 

A  fault  to  pardon  in  tlie  drawing's  lines, 

Its  body,  so  to  speak :  its  soul  is  right. 

He  means  right  —  that,  a  child  may  understand. 

Still,  what  an  arm!  and  I  could  alter  it:  115 

But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch  — 

Out  of  me,  out  of  me !    And  wherefore  out  ? 

Had  you  enjoined  thorn  on  me,  given  me  soul. 

We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you ! 

Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think  —  120 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you  —  oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow, 

And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 


The  Urbinate   (105)  —  Raphael,  born  at  Urbino. 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO  291 

The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare  —  125 

Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a  mind ! 

Some  women  do  so.    Had  the  mouth  there  urged 

' '  God  and  the  glory !  never  care  for  gain. 

The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that  ? 

Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo !  130 

Eafael  is  waiting:  up  to  God,  all  three!" 

I  might  have  done  it  for  you.    So  it  seems : 

Perhaps  not.    All  is  as  God  over-rules. 

Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self; 

The  rest  avail  not.    Why  do  I  need  you  ?  135 

Wliat  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo  ? 

In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not ; 

And  who  would  do  it,  can  not,  I  perceive : 

Yet  the  will's  somewhat  —  somewhat,  too,  the  power 

And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.    At  the  end,  140 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 

'T  is  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 

That  I  am  something  underrated  here. 

Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth. 

I  dare  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day,  145 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 

The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside ; 

But  they  speak  sometimes ;  I  must  bear  it  all. 

Well  may  they  speak !    That  Francis,  that  first  time. 

And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau !  150 

I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 

Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 


Agnolo    (130) — Michael   Angclo. 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  ihe  Paris  lords   (140)  — who  knew  of  his 
defalcation  towards   their  King. 


292  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 

In  that  humane  great  monarch 's  golden  look,  —> 

One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 

Over  his  month 's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile,         155 

One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck. 

The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 

I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me, 

All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes, 

Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls  160 

Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts,  — 

And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond. 

This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work. 

To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward ! 

A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days?  165 

And  had  you  not  grown  restless    .    .    ,    but  I  know  — 

'T  is  done  and  past ;  't  was  right,  my  instinct  said ; 

Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray: 

And  I'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 

Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his  world.    170 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way  ? 

You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 

The  triumph  was  —  to  reach  and  stay  there ;  since 

I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost? 

Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's  gold,      175 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine ! 

''Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that; 

The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray. 

But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife  —  " 

IMen  will  excuse  me.    I  am  glad  to  judge  180 

Both  pictures  in  your  presence;  clearer  grows 


This   face   beyond    (162) — Lucrezia's. 
the  Roman's  (179) — Michael  Angelo. 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO  293 

My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 

For  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives. 

Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 

To  Rafael  ...  I  have  known  it  all  these  years  .  .  .  185 

(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his  thoughts 

Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 

Too  lifted  up  in  heart  becaiLse  of  it) 

"Friend,  there's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 

Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how,         190 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 

As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings. 

Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours!" 

To  Rafael 's !  —  And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 

I  hardly  dare    .    .    .    yet,  only  you  to  see,  195 

Give  the  chalk  here  —  quick,  thus  the  line  should  go ! 

Ay,  but  the  soul!  he's  Rafael!  rub  it  out! 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 

(What  he?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo? 

Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those  ? )  200 

If  really  there  was  such  a  chance  so  lost,  — 

Is,  whether  you're  —  not  grateful  —  but  more  pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.    And  you  smile  indeed ! 

This  hour  has  been  an  hour !    Another  smile  ? 

If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night  205 

I  should  w^ork  better,  do  you  comprehend? 

I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 

See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now;  there's  a  star; 

Morello's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall. 

The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by.  210 

Come  from  the  window,  love,  —  come  in,  at  last, 

Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 


294  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 

We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.    God  is  just. 

King  Francis  may  forgive  me :  oft  at  nights 

When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out,  215 

The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 

Distinct,  instead  of  onortar,  fierce  bright  gold, 

That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with ! 

Let  us  but  love  each  other.    Must  you  go  ? 

That  Cousin  here  again  ?  he  waits  outside  ?  220 

Must  see  you  —  you,  and  not  with  me  ?    Those  loans  ? 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay  ?  you  smiled  for  that  ? 

Well,  let  smiles  buy  me !  have  you  more  to  spend  ? 

While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 

Are  left  me,  work 's  my  ware,  and  what 's  it  worth  ?    225 

I'll  pay  my  fancy.    Only  let  me  sit 

The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 

Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 

How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  France, 

One  picture,  just  one  more  —  the  Virgin's  face,  230 

Not  yo^^rs  this  time !    I  want  you  at  my  side 

To  hear  them  —  that  is,  Michel  Agnolo  — 

Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  yon  of  its  worth. 

Will  you?    To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 

I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor,  235 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand  —  there,  there. 

And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 

If  he  demurs ;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 

To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.    Beside, 

What's  better,  and  what's  all  I  care  about,  240 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff! 


Scudi  for  the  ruff   (241) — "scudi,"  Italian  coins;  "ruff,"  a  game 
of  cards. 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO  295 

Love,  does  that  please  you?    Ah,  but  what  does  he, 
The  Cousin !  what  does  he  to  please  you  more  ? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less.  245 

Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it  ? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis !  —  it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want.  250 

Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich !    Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they  died : 
And  I  have  laboured  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.    Some  good  son  255 

Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures  —  let  him  try ! 
No  doubt,  there's  something  strikes  a  balance.    Yes, 
You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 
This  must  suffice  me  here.    What  would  one  have  ? 
In  'heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more  chance  —  260 
Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed. 
For  Leonard,  Eafael,  Agnolo  and  me 


four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem  (261)  — Revelations  XXI; 
15-18 :  And  he  that  talked  with  me  had  a  golden  reed  to  measure 
the  city,  and  the  gates  thereof,  and  the  wall  thereof.  And  the  city 
lieth  four  square,  and  the  length  is  as  large  as  the  breadth  :  and  he 
measured  the  city  with  the  reed,  twelve  thousand  furlongs.  The 
length  and  the  breadth  and  the  height  of  it  are  equal.  And  he 
measured  the  wall  thereof,  a  hundred  and  forty  and  four  cubits, 
according  to  the  measure  of  a  man,  that  is  of  the  angel.  And  the 
building  of  the  wall  of  it  was  of  jasper :  and  the  city  was  pure 
gold,   like   unto   clear   glass. 

Leonard   (263)  —  Leonardo  da  Vlnci, 


296  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 

To  cover  —  the  three  first  without  a  wife, 

While  I  have  mine !    So  —  still  they  overcome  265 

Because  there's  still  Lucrezia,  —  as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle!    Go,  my  Love. 

—  Robert  Browning. 


The  Lost  Leader 


297 


THE  LOST  LEADER  299 

THE  LOST  LEADER 

In  1845  Robert  Browning  published  The  Lost  Leader, 
a  criticism  of  Wordsworth,  or  perhaps  one  ought  to  say 
that  it  is  a  criticism  of  all  leaders  who  desert  the  cause 
of  the  people,  Wordsworth  being  taken  by  Browning  as 
a  type  of  all  such.  The  Lost  Leader  is  the  confident 
assurance  of  a  young  man  (Browning  was  then  thirty- 
three  and  Wordsworth  was  seventy-five  and  had  been 
made  Poet  Laureate  two  years  before).  The  poem 
attracted  attention  as  soon  as  it  appeared,  not  only  be- 
cause of  its  attack  upon  the  greatest  of  living  English 
poets,  but  because  of  its  splendid  qualities  as  a  marching 
cry  for  social  progress ;  and  it  continues  to  be  one  of  the 
best  known  of  Browning's  poems. 

That  Browning  had  the  great  Lake  poet  in  mind  is 
clear;  not  only  from  his  own  admission  later,  but  from 
many  other  circumstances.  William  Sharp,  in  his  Life 
of  Brow7iing,  says:  "It  is  best  as  well  as  right  that 
Wordsworth  should  not  be  more  than  nominally  identi- 
fied with  The  Lost  Leader,"  but  G.  K.  Chesterton  (Life 
of  Browning)  caUs  it  a  ''perfectly  normal  and  old- 
fashioned  indignation."  Browning  himself,  in  answer 
to  an  inquiry,  softened  the  matter  over  in  this  fashion: 

"I  did  in  my  hasty  youth  presume  to  use  the  great 
and  venerable  personality  of  Wordsworth  as  a  sort  of 
painter's  model;  one  from  which  this  or  the  other  par- 
ticular feature  may  be  selected  and  turned  to  account; 
had  I  intended  more,  above  all,  such  a  boldness  as  por- 
traying the  entire  man,  I  should  not  have  talked  about 


300  THE  LOST  LEADER 

'Handfuls  of  silver  and  bits  of  ribbon.'  These  never 
influenced  the  change  of  policy  in  the  great  poet;  whose 
defection,  nevertheless,  accompanied  as  it  was  by  a 
regular  face-about  of  his  special  party,  was  to  my  juve- 
nile apprehension  and  even  mature  consideration  an 
event  to  deplore.  But  just  as  in  the  tapestry  on  my 
wall  I  can  recognize  figures  which  have  struck  out  a 
fancy,  on  occasion,  that  though  truly  enough  thus 
derived,  yet  would  be  preposterous  as  a  copy,  so,  though 
I  dare  not  deny  the  original  of  my  little  poem,  I  alto- 
gether refuse  to  have  it  considered  as  the  'vera  effigies' 
of  such  a  moral  and  intellectual  superiority." 

Browning  and  "Wordsworth  were  acquainted  with 
each  other  and  the  younger  poet  often  spoke  of  the  older 
with  respect  and  praise,  but  all  through  the  voluminous 
correspondence  of  Browning  and  Elizabeth  Barrett  there 
are  references  to  Wordsworth  which  show  that  Browning 
never  fully  appreciated  either  him  or  his  poetry. 

And  then,  there  were  good  reasons  why  Browning  or 
any  other  Liberal  should  feel  that  Wordsworth  had  de- 
serted the  cause.  As  a  young  man,  just  out  of  the  Uni- 
versity, Wordsworth  had  been  in  enthusiastic  sympathy 
with  the  French  Revolution  and  the  cause  of  liberty  and 
equality.  He  visited  France  and  thought  of  taking  part 
in  the  great  struggle,  but  was  called  back  to  England. 
He  spoke  of  France  as 

Standing  on  the  top  of  golden  hours 

and  in  1850  he  said : 

Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive 
But  to  be  young  was  very  Heaven. 


THE  LOST  LExiDER  301 

In  a  letter  to  the  Bishop  of  Landoff  he  advocated 
universal  suffrage,  defended  the  insight  of  the  masses, 
pleaded  for  extended  education,  and  advocated  the  elec- 
tion by  the  people  of  their  chief  ruler.  This  is  surely- 
wide-open  democracy.  Yet  so  changed  had  his  opinions 
become  that  in  1836  he  could  write:  ''It  is  pride  and 
presumption,  and  not  real  love  of  liberty  which  has  made 
the  French  and  the  Americans  so  enamoured  of  what 
they  call  equality."  He  had  become,  in  fact,  a  pro- 
nounced Conservative.  He  opposed  the  schemes  for  the 
spread  of  education.  Catholic  Emancipation,  the  Reform 
Bill,  the  New  Poor  Law  —  indeed,  the  whole  great  move- 
ment about  1830  for  the  rights  of  the  common  people. 
The  process  through  which  this  change  came  about  is 
perfectly  clear,  but  can  not  be  discussed  here.  That 
Wordsworth  was  absolutely  sincere,  there  can  be  no  sort 
of  doubt.  He  was  not  alone  in  changing  his  views  — 
Southey,  Charles  Kingsley,  and  others  were  with  him. 
And  this  fact  must  be  remembered,  that  Wordsworth 
remains  for  all  time  the  supreme  poet  of  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  the  shepherds  and  dalesmen  and  humble  folk 
of  the  hills  and  dales  of  England. 

It  is  interesting  to  recall  that  Shelley,  a  Liberalist  of 
the  most  radical  type,  addressed  a  sonnet  to  Wordsworth 
in  1815  in  which  occur  these  lines : 

"Thou  wert  as  a  lone  star,  whose  light  did  shine 
On  some  frail  bark  in  winter's  midnight  roar: 
Thou  hast  like  to  a  rock-built  refuge  stood 
Above  the  blind  and  battling  multitude: 
In  honoured  poverty  thy  voioe  did  weave 
Songs  consecrate  to  truth  and  liberty, — 
Deserting  these,  thou  leavest  me  to  grieve, 
Thus  having  been,  that  thou  shouldst  cease  to  be." 


302  THE  LOST  LEADER 


THE  LOST  LEADER 


Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat  — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver ;  5 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed : 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service ! 

Rags  —  were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud ! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honored  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye,  10 

Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents. 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die ! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us. 

Burns,  Shelley,  were  wdth  us, —  they  watch  from  their 
graves ! 
lie  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen,  15 

—  He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves ! 
We  shall  march  prospering,  —  not  through  his  presence ; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us, —  not  from  his  lyre ; 
Deeds  will  be  done, —  while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire :      20 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more. 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 


The  first  two  linos  doubtless  refer  to  the  pension  of  £300  granted  to 
Wordsworth  in  1842  and  to  the  Laureateship  bestowed  upon  him  in 
1843.  The  fourth  line  means  that  by  accepting  these  official  honors 
from  King  George,  Wordsworth  had  lost  the  esteem  of  those  who  had 
been  his  Liberal  followers. 

Lines  10  and  11  are  a  fine  and  famous  description  of  Wordsworth. 


THE  LOST  LEADER  303 

One  more  devils '-triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God ! 
Life 's  night  begins :  let  him  never  come  back  to  us !    25 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and  pain ; 
Forced  praise  on  our  part  —  the  glimmer  of  twilight, 

Never  glad,  confident  morning  again ! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him  —  strike  gallantly, 

Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own ;  30 

Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 

Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne ! 

—  Robert  Browning. 


The  new   knowledge    (line  31) — "Knowldcge   of  the  Inevitableness 
of  the  people's  progress" — (Charlotte  Porter  and   Ilelen  A.   Clarke). 


Philomela 


PHILOMELA  307 


PHILOMELA 


Few  of  Matthew  Arnold's  poems  possess  the  exquisite 
grace  and  charm  of  Philomela.  It  succeeds  too  in  catch- 
ing and  expressing  something  of  the  indefinable  "deep- 
sunken  old-world  pain"  of  its  theme. 

Philomela  is  another  name  for  the  nightingale,  the 
finest  of  European  song-birds,  whose  entrancing  song  is 
heard  in  England  chiefly  in  still  nights  of  May  and  June. 
To  understand  the  poem  one  must  know  the  ancient 
Greek  myth  of  Philomela,  which  is  told  with  many  vari- 
ations by  different  writers,  ancient  and  modem. 

Pandion,  King  of  Attica,  had  two  daughters,  Prokne 
(or  Procne)  and  Philomela.  For  assistance  in  a  war 
with  the  King  of  Thebes,  rendered  him  by  Tereus,  King 
of  Thrace,  Pandion  gave  Prokne  to  Tereus  to  be  his  wife, 
and  they  went  back  to  Thrace.  After  some  time  Prokne 
wanted  her  sister  Philomela  to  visit  her,  and  Tereus  went 
to  Athens  to  get  her  and  accompany  her  to  Thrace.  On 
the  way  he  mistreated  her  and  to  keep  her  from  telling 
her  sister,  his  wife,  he  cut  out  her  tongue  and  shut  her 
up  in  a  house  in  the  woods,  and  told  his  wife  that  Philo- 
mela was  dead.  Philomela,  however,  contrived  to  weave 
the  story  of  her  treatment  into  a  web  or  piece  of  tapes- 
try and  send  it  to  her  sister.  Prokne  succeeded  in  re- 
leasing Philomela,  and  then  to  punish  Tereus  she  had 
served  up  to  him  in  a  dish  to  eat  the  flesh  of  his  own  son 
Itylos  (or  Itys).  Discovering  what  she  had  done,  Tereus 
pursued  the  two  sisters  with  a  sword.  To  aid  them  in 
their  escape  from  him,  Prokne  was  changed  by  the  gods 


308  PHILOMELA 

into  a  swallow  and  Philomela  into  a  nightingale.  "The 
one  of  them  for  the  woods,  the  other  takes  her  place  be- 
neath the  roofs  of  houses.  Nor  even  yet  have  the  marks 
of  murder  withdrawn  from  her  breast,  and  her  feathers 
are  still  stained  with  blood." 

This  is  the  story  as  told  in  Ovid's  Metamorphoses, 
Book  VI,  lines  412  to  676.  Some  writers  reverse  the  leg- 
end and  say  that  Philomela  was  changed  into  a  swallow, 
and  Prokne  into  a  nightingale.    Another  version  is  this : 

Tereus,  some  time  after  his  marriage  to  Prokne,  tired 
of  her,  and  pretending  to  her  sister  Pdiilomela  that 
Prokne  was  dead,  he  married  Philomela.  To  prevent 
Prokne  from  revealing  the  truth  he  tore  out  her  tongue 
and  placed  her  in  a  cage.  But  Prokne  wove  a  statement 
of  the  facts  into  a  piece  of  tapestry  or  web  and  sent  it  to 
her  sister.  The  two  sisters  then,  in  order  to  execute  a 
terrible  revenge  upon  TereiTS,  killed  his  young  son, 
Itylos,  and  placed  the  flesh  in  a  dish  before  him.  Tereus 
drew  his  sword  and  pursued  the  sisters  till  all  three  were 
changed  by  the  gods  into  birds :  he  into  a  lapwing,  Prokne 
into  a  swallow,  and  Philomela  into  a  nightingale.  Itys 
or  Itylos  was  changed  into  a  pheasant. 

The  legend  is  connected  with  the  G-reek  city  of  Daulis, 
the  "lone  Daulis"  in  the  "high  Cephissian  vale"  of 
Arnold's  poem. 

PHILOMELA 

Hark!    Ah  the  Nightingale! 

The  tawny-throated ! 

Hark !  from  the  moonlit  cedar  what  a  burst ! 


PHILOMELA  309 

What  triumph !  hark  —  what  pain ! 

O  Wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 

Still,  after  many  years,  in  distant  lands, 

Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewilder 'd  brain 

That  wild,  unquench  'd,  deep-sunken,  old-world  pain  — 

Say,  will  it  never  heal? 
And  can  this  fragrant  lawn 
With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 
And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 
And  moonsihine  and  the  dew, 
To  thy  rack'd  heart  and  brain 

Afford  no  balm? 

Dost  thou  tonight  behold 
Here,  through  the  moonlight  on  this  English  grass. 
The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian  wild  ? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse 
With  hot  cheeks  and  sear'd  eyes 
The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  Sister's  shame? 

Dost  thou  once  more  assay 
Thy  flight  and  feel  come  over  thee, 
Poor  Fugitive,  the  feathery  change 
Once  more,  and  once  more  seem  to  make  resound 
With  love  and  (hate,  triumph  and  agony, 
Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephissian  vale? 

Listen,  Eugenia  — 
How  thick  the  bursts  come  crowding  through  the  leaves ! 

Again  —  thou  hearest ! 
Eternal  passion ! 
Eternal  pain !  __  Matthew  Arnold. 


Compare  Swinburne's  Itylus  with  Arnold's  poem. 


The  Deacon's  Masterpiece ;  or,  the 
Wonderful  *'One-Hoss  Shay" 


311 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERriECE  313 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE;  OR,  THE 
WONDERFUL  ''ONE-HOSS  SHAY" 

No  other  American  poem  is  so  generally  misunderstood 
as  Holmes'  familiar  One-hoss  Shay.  An  examination  of 
more  than  thirty  references  to  it  by  as  many  critics  and 
commentators,  American  and  English,  shows  only  one 
who  sees  in  it  anything  more  than  fine  fun  and  excellent 
Yankee  humor.  Everybody  sees  that,  enjoys  it,  and 
praises  it;  but  Professor  Barrett  Wendell  sees  in  it  also 
"one  of  the  most  pitiless  satires  in  our  language." 

It  is  a  satire  on  the  logically  constructed  theology  of 
early  New  England,  especially  that  theology  as  formu- 
lated by  Jonathan  Edwards  in  his  great  work  on  The 
Freedom  of  the  Will.  As  a  feat  of  logical  reasoning 
this  work  by  Jonathan  Edwards  surpasses  anything  done 
by  any  other  American  writer.  The  unbending  Cal- 
vinistic  creed  as  forged  by  Edwards  seemed  unanswer- 
able, and  yet,  in  a  hundred  years.  New  England  had 
turned  away  from  it  and  had  gone  over  very  largely  to 
Unitarianism.  Edwards 'great  work  was  published  in  1755 
—  notice  the  date.  That  was  the  year  also  of  the  Lisbon 
earthquake  and  the  defeat  of  General  Braddock  at  Fort 
Duquesne,  but  these  are  mere  incidents :  they  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  the  meaning  of  the  poem,  unless  Holmes 
intends  for  us  to  think  of  the  publioaition  of  Edwards' 
book  as  a  calamity  along  with  the  other  calamities  of 
1755!  The  One-hoss  Shay  was  published  almost  exactly 
a  hundred  years  after  The  Freedom  of  the  Will;  that  is 
to  say,  a  hundred  years  after  this  perfectly  constructed 


314  THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE;  OR,  THE 

theological  creed.  Holmes  saw  that  the  creed  had  gone 
to  pieces,  and  rejoiced  in  the  fact.  His  father  had  been 
a  stern  adherent  of  that  belief,  but  he  himself  was  a 
Unitarian,  and  he  criticised  the  older  creed  in  prose,  in 
verse,  and  in  speech,  offending  some,  shocking  others,  but 
perhaps  producing  a  tonic  effect  upon  all. 

All  we  have  to  do  is  to  bear  in  mind  that  the  "Dea- 
con" stands  for  Jonathan  Edwards  and  that  the  "Won- 
derful One-hoss  Shay"  stands  for  his  system  of  theology, 
which  was  so  perfectly  constructed  "that  it  couldn't 
break  down"  —  but  did  —  and  we  can  see  in  the  poem 
not  only  the  finest  flower  of  Yankee  humor  but  also  a 
satire  that  has  but  few  equals  for  merciless  keenness. 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTEEPIECE ;  'OR,  THE 
WONDERFUL  "ONE-HOSS  SHAY" 

A  LOGICAL  STORY 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 
It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 
And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it  —  ah,  but  stay, 
I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay,  — 
(Scaring  the  parson  into  fits. 
Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits  — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say? 
'Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five ; 
Georgius  Sccundus  was  then  alive  — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive; 


WONDERFUL  "ONE-HOSS  SHAY  "  815 

That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 
Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 
There  is  always  someivhere  a  weakest  spot  — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill. 
In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 
In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace  —  lurking  still ; 
Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will  — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without; 
And  that's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
A  chaise  hreaks  down  but  doesn't  wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  ''I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "I  tell  yeou") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'n '  the  keounty  'n '  all  the  kentry  raoun ' ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn'  break  daown: 
' '  Fur, ' '  said  the  Deacon,  "  't  's  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak. 
That  couldn't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke  — 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floors  and  sills ; 
He  sent  for  lance  wood  to  make  the  thills ; 
The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees ; 


316         THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE;  OR,  THE 

The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese 
But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these ; 
The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "Settler's  ellum" 
(Last  of  its  timber  —  they  couldn 't  sell  'em ; 
Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 
And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips)  ; 
Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 
Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 
Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue ; 
Thoroughbrace,  bison-skin  thick  and  wide ; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died ; 
That  was  the  way  he  "put  her  through." 
"There!"  said  the  Deacon,  "naow  she'll  dew!" 

Do !  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 
She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less ! 
Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray. 
Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 
Children  and  grandchildren  —  where  were  they  ? 
But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake  day! 
Eighteen  hundred  ;  it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten ; 
' '  Hahnsum  kerridge ' '  they  called  it  then, 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came ; 
Running  as  usual,  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive; 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  fifty-five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 


WONDERFUL  "ONE-HOSS  SHAY"  317 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 
Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 
In  fact,  there's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 
So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 
(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large : 
Take  it;  you're  welcome  —  no  extra  charge.) 

First  op  November  —  the  Earthquake-day; 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 
A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 
But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 
There  couldn't  be,  for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  one  to  start; 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whipple-tree  neither  less  nor  more. 
And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  the  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,    as  a  wJiole,  it  is  past  a  doubt, 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  tvorn  out! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty -five! 
This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive: 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way ! 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 
"Huddup  !!"  said  the  parson;  off  went  they. 
The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text ; 
Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the  —  Moses  —  was  coming  next ; 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 


318  THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE  ;  OR,  THE 

Close  by  the  meet 'n '-house  on  the  hill; 
First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill, 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 
At  half -past  nine  by  the  meet 'n '-house  clock, 
Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock ! 
What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound. 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once, 
All  at  once  and  nothing  first, 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.    That's  all  I  say. 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


The  Lisbon  earthquake  occurred  on  the  first  of  NoTember,  1755. 
The  greater  part  of  the  city  of  Lisbon,  Portugal,  was  destroyed.  Be- 
tween 30,000  and  40,000  people  lost  their  lives,  and  property 
amounting  to  $100,000,000  was  destroyed  either  by  the  earthquake 
OT  by  the  fire  which  immediately  followed  it.  The  shock  was  felt 
from  Scotland  to  Asia  Minor. 

Oeorgius  Secundus  (King  George  II)  was  of  the  German  House 
of  Hanover,  and  was  thoroughly  German  in  character  and  habits. 
He  was  King  of  Great  Britain  from  1727  to  1760. 

General  Edward  Braddock  was  sent  from  England  with  two  regi- 
ments especially  to  drive  the  Fi'ench  and  Indians  from  Fort  Du- 
quesne  (Pittsburgh).  The  battle  was  fought  July  9,  1755,  on  the 
east  side  of  the  Monongahela,  seven  or  eight  miles  from  Fort  Du- 
quesne.  Braddock's  regulars  and  the  colonial  militia,  under  Wash- 
ington, were  defeated  and  Braddock  was  killed. 


Rhoecus 


319 


RHOECUS  321 


RHOECUS 

The  Greeks  believed  in  many  minor  divinities,  not 
dwelling  on  Olympus,  but  making  their  homes  among 
men.  These  are  mentioned  in  the  Homeric  poems,  the 
oldest  portion  of  Greek  literature.  They  were  the 
Nymphs,  and  one  of  the  most  interesting  species  of 
Nymphs  were  the  Dryads  or  Nymphs  of  the  Trees.  They 
personified  vegetable  life.  In  an  ancient  Homeric  hymn 
they  are  described  as  neither  goddesses  nor  women  but 
partaking  of  the  nature  of  both. 

On  the  high  hills 
Lofty  they  stand ;  the  deathless  sacred  grore 
Men  call  them,  and  with  iron  never  cut. 

These  beautiful  spirits  dwelling  in  the  trees  had  the 
power  to  reward  or  to  punish  those  who  befriended  or  in- 
jured the  trees  in  which  they  dwelt.  Many  legends  grew 
up  about  these  Dryads  of  the  trees,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  being  the  legend  of  Rhoecus  or  Rhoekos. 
Keightley  tells  the  tale  in  prose  as  follows : 

"A  man  named  Rhoekos  happening  to  see  an  oak  just  ready  to 
fall  to  the  ground  ordered  his  slaves  to  prop  it  up.  The  Nymph, 
who  had  been  on  the  point  of  perishing  with  the  tree,  came  to  him 
and  expressed  her  gratitude  to  him  for  having  saved  her  life,  and  at 
the  same  time  desired  him  to  ask  what  reward  he  would.  Rhoekos 
then  requested  her  to  permit  him  to  be  her  lover,  and  the  Nymph 
acceded  to  his  desire.  She  at  the  same  time  charged  him  strictly  to 
avoid  the  society  of  every  other  woman,  and  told  him  that  a  bee 
should  be  her  messenger. 

"One  time  the  bee  happened  to  come  to  Rhoekos  as  he  was  play- 
ing at  draughts  (dice)  and  he  made  a  rough  reply.  [Another  ver- 
sion says  he  roughly  brushed  the  bee  away.]  This  so  incensed  the 
Nymph  that  she  deprived  him  of  his  sight." 


322  RHOECUS 

The  Dryads  sometimes  assumed  the  forms  of  shepherd- 
esses, huntresses  or  peasant  girls,  but  they  were  supposed 
to  have  eome  into  existence  with  certain  trees  and  to 
perish  with  them.  They  were  always  surpassingly  beau- 
tiful. To  destroy  a  tree  needlessly  was  an  impious  act, 
sometimes  severely  punished. 

This  simple  statement  of  the  old  nymphology  and  the 
old  legend  of  Rhoekos  will  serve  as  a  background  for 
James  Russell  Lowell's  beautiful  poem.  Observe  that  in 
Lowell's  poem  the  youth  is  deprived,  not  of  his  physical 
sight,  as  in  the  old  legend,  but  of  his  spiritual  sight. 


FROM  RHOECUS 
#  #  #  * 

A  youth  named  Rhoecus,  wandering  in  the  wood. 
Saw  an  old  oak  just  trembling  to  its  fall, 
And,  feeling  pity  of  so  fair  a  tree. 
He  propped  its  gray  trunk  with  admiring  care, 
And  with  a  thoughtless  footstep  loitered  on. 
But,  as  he  turned,  he  heard  a  voice  behind 
That  murmxired  * '  Rhcecus ! "  'T  was  as  if  the  leaves, 
Stirred  by  a  passing  breath,  had  murmured  it, 
And,  while  he  paused  bewildered,  yet  again 
It  murmured  *  *  Rhoecus ! ' '  softer  than  'a  breeze. 
ITe  started  and  beheld  with  dizzy  eyes 
What  seemed  the  substance  of  a  happy  dream 
Stand  there  before  him,  spreading  a  warm  glow 
Within  the  green  glooms  of  the  shfJdowy  oak. 
It  seemed  a  woman's  shape,  yet  all  too  fair 


RHOECUS  323 

To  be  a  woman,  and  with  eyes  too  meek 

For  any  that  were  wont  to  mate  with  gods. 

All  naked  like  a  goddess  stood  she  there, 

And  like  a  goddess  all  too  beautiful 

To  feel  the  guilt-bom  earthliness  of  shame. 

*  *  Rhoecus,  I  am  the  Dryad  of  this  tree, ' ' 

Thus  she  began,  dropping  her  low-toned  words 

•Serene,  and  full,  and  clear,  as  drops  of  dew, 

* '  And  with'  it  I  am  doomed  to  live  and  die ; 

The  rain  and  sunshine  are  my  caterers. 

Nor  have  I  other  bliss  than  simple  life ; 

Now  ask  me  what  thou  wilt,  that  I  can  give, 

And  with  a  thankful  joy  it  shall  be  thine." 

Then  Rhcecus,  with  a  flutter  at  the  heart, 
Yet,  by  the  prompting  of  such  beauty,  bold, 
Answ^ered :  * '  What  is  there  that  can  satisfy 
The  endless  eraving  of  the  soul  but  love  ? 
Give  me  thy  love,  or  but  the  hope  of  that 
Which  must  be  evermore  my  nature's  goal." 
After  'a  little  pause  she  said  again, 
But  with  a  glimpse  of  sadness  in  her  tone, 
"I  give  it,  Rhoeous,  though  a  perilous  gift; 
An  hour  before  the  sunset  meet  me  here, ' ' 
And  straightway  there  was  nothing  he  oould  see 
But  the  green  gloom  beneath  the  sihadowy  oak, 
And  not  a  sound  came  to  his  straining  ears 
But  the  low  trickling  rustle  of  the  leaves. 
And  far  away  upon  an  emerald  slope 
The  falter  of  an  idle  shepherd's  pipe. 


324  RHOECUS 

Now,  in  those  days  of  simpleness  and  faith, 

Men  did  not  think  that  happj^  things  were  dreams 

Because  they  overstepped  the  narrow  bourn 

Of  likelihood,  but  reverently  deemed 

Nothing  too  wondrous  or  too  beautiful 

To  be  the  guerdon  of  a  daring  heart. 

So  Rhoecus  made  no  doubt  that  he  was  blest. 

And  all  along  unto  the  city 's  gate 

Earth  seemed  to  spring  beneath  him  as  he  walked, 

The  clear,  broad  sky  looked  bluer  than  its  wont, 

And  he  could  scarce  Delieve  he  had  not  wings. 

Such  sunshine  seeoned  to  glitter  through  his  veins 

Insitead  of  blood,  so  light  he  felt  and  strange. 

Young  Rhoecus  had  a  faithful  heart  enough, 
But  one  that  in  the  present  dwelt  too  miuch. 
And,  taking  with  blithe  welcome  whatsoe'er 
Chance  gave  of  joy,  was  wholly  bound  in  that. 
Like  the  contented  peasant  of  a  vale, 
Deemed  it  the  world,  and  never  looked  beyond. 
So,  haply  meeting  in  the  afternoon 
Some  comrades  who  were  playing  at  the  dice, 
He  jo-ined  them,  and  forgot  all  else  beside. 

The  dice  were  rattling  at  the  merriest, 
And  RhoeciTS,  who  had  met  but  sorry  luck, 
Just  lau'ghed  in  triumph  at  a  happy  throw. 
When  through  the  room  there  hummed  a  yellow  bee 
That  buzzed  about  his  ear  with  down-dropped  legs 
As  if  to  light.    And  Rhoecus  laughed  and  said, 
Feeling  how  red  and  flushed  he  was  with  loss, 


RHOECUS  325 

"By  Venus!  does  he  take  me  for  a  rose?" 

And  briished  him  off  with  rough,  impatient  hand. 

But  still  the  bee  came  back,  and  thrice  again 

Rhoecus  did  beat  him  off  with  growing  wrath. 

Then  through  the  window  flew  the  wounded  bee, 

And  Rhoecus,  tracking  him  with  angry  eyes, 

Saw  a  sharp  mountain-peak  of  Thessaly 

Against  the  red  disk  of  the  setting  sun, — 

And  instantly  the  blood  sank  from  his  heart, 

As  if  its  very  walls  had  caved  away. 

Without  a  word  he  turned,  and,  rushing  forth. 

Ran  madly  through  the  city  and  the  gate, 

And  o'er  the  plain,  which  now  the  wood's  long  shade, 

By  the  low  sun  thrown  forward  broad  and  dim, 

Darkened  well-nigh  unto  the  city's  wall. 

Quite  spent  and  out  of  breath  he  reached  the  tree. 

And,  listening  fearfully,  he  heard  once  more 

The  low  murmur  "Rhoicus!"  close  at  hand: 

Whereat  he  looked  around  him,  but  could  see 

Naught  but  the  deepening  glooms  beneath  the  oak. 

Then  sighed  the  voice,  ' '  0  Rhoecus !  nevermore 

Shalt  thou  behold  me  or  by  day  or  night, 

Me,  who  would  fain  have  blessed  thee  with  a  love 

More  ripe  and  bounteous  than  ever  yet 

Filled  up  with  nectar  any  mortal  heart : 

But  thou  didst  scorn  my  humble  messenger, 

And  sent  'st  him  back  to  me  with  bruised  wings. 

We  spirits  only  show  to  gentle  eyes, 

We  ever  ask  an  undivided  love, 

And  he  who  scorns  the  least  of  Nature's  works 


326  RHOECUS 

Is  theneefortli  exiled  and  shut  out  from  all. 
Farewell!  for  thou  canst  never  see  me  more." 

Then  Rhoecus  beat  his  breast,  and  groaned  aloud, 
And  cried,  "Be  pitiful!  forgive  me  yet 
This  once,  and  I  shall  never  need  it  more!" 
"Alas!"  the  voice  returned,  "  't  is  thou  art  blind, 
Not  I  unmerciful;  I  can  forgive, 
But  have  no  skill  to  heal  thy  spirit's  eyes; 
Only  the  soul  hath  power  o'er  itself." 
With  that  again  there  murmured,  "Nevermore!" 
And  Rhoecus  after  heard  no  other  sound, 
Except  the  rattling  of  the  oak 's  crisp  leaves, 
Like  the  long  surf  upon  a  distant  shore, 
Raking  the  sea-worn  pebbles  up  and  down. 
The  night  had  gathered  round  him:  o'er  the  plain 
The  city  sparkled  with  its  thousand  lights, 
And  sounds  of  revel  fell  upon  his  ear 
Harshly  and  like  a  curse ;  above  the  sky, 
With  all  its  bright  sublimity  of  stars. 
Deepened,  and  on  his  forehead  smote  the  breeze : 
Beauty  was  all  around  him  and  delight. 
But  from  that  eve  he  was  alone  on  earth. 

— James  Russell  Lowell. 


The  Shepherd  of  King  Admet 


us 


827 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  KING  ADMETUS  329 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  KING  ADMETUS 

The  Shepherd  of  King  Admetus,  by  James  Russell 
Lowell,  is  founded  upon  a  well-known  Greek  myth. 
Apollo  was  one  of  the  chief  gods  and  dwelt  on  the  summit 
of  Mount  Olympus.  Here  among  the  other  gods  Apollo 
made  music  with  his  lyre,  for  he  was  the  divinity  of 
poetry  and  music  and  prophecy  as  well  as  the  god  of 
light.  He  had  a  son,  Aesculapius,  who  became  so  skilled 
in  medicine  that  in  one  instance  he  was  able  to  restore 
the  dead  to  life.  This  was  resented  by  Pluto,  and  at 
Pluto's  request  Zeus,  the  father  of  all  the  gods,  struck 
the  physician  with  lightning  and  killed  him.  Apollo  was 
indignant  at  the  destruction  of  his  son  and  slew  one  of 
the  workmen  who  had  forged  the  thunderbolt  for  Zeus. 
In  order  to  punish  Apollo  for  this  deed,  Zeus  condemned 
him  to  serve  a  mortal  for  a  year  (some  versions  say  eight 
years).  Apollo  took  the  form  of  a  shepherd  and  went 
into  the  service  of  Admetus,  king  of  Thessaly. 

Here  among  the  mountains  and  vales  of  Thessaly  he 
tended  the  sheep,  played  upon  his  lyre,  and  spoke  words 
of  beauty  and  mystery.  He  wore  the  form  of  a  youth 
and  he  went  in  and  out  among  men  and  ''they  made 
his  careless  words  their  law."  And  after  he  was  dead 
and  gone  and  the  memory  of  him  had  grown  dim  ''earth 
seemed  more  sweet  to  live  upon,  more  full  of  love,  be- 
cause of  him.'* 

This  shepherd  of  the  king  of  Thessaly,  Apollo  the  god 
of  light  and  song,  was  the  world's  first  poet;  and  all 


330  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  KING  ADMETUS 

true  poets  since  his  day  have  been  of  his  race  and  blood. 
Wordsworth  says: 

In  that  fair  clime  the  lonely  herdsman,  stretched 
On  the  soft  grass  through  half  a  summer's  day, 
With  music  lulled  his  indolent  repose ; 
And,  in  some  fit  of  weariness,  if  he. 
When  his  own  breath  was  silent,  chanced  to  hear 
A  distant  strain  far  sweeter  than  the  sounds 
Which  his  poor  skill  could  make,  his  fancy  fetched 
Even  from  the  blazing  chariot  of  tbe  Sun 
A  beardless  youth  who  touched  a  golden  lute. 
And  filled  the  illumined  groTCs  with  ravishment. 

Lowell's  poem  is  a  very  happy  combination  of  grace, 
lightness  and  seriousness. 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  KING  ADMETUS 

There  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth, 

Some  thousand  years  ago, 
Whose  slender  hands  were  nothing  worth, 

Whether  to  plough,  or  reap,  or  sow. 

Upon  an  empty  tortoise-shell 

He  stretched  some  chords,  and  drew 

IMusic  that  made  men's  bosoms  swell 

Fearless,  or  brimmed  their  eyes  with  dew. 

Then  King  Admetus,  one  who  had 

Pure  taste  by  right  divine, 
Decreed  his  singing  not  too  bad 

To  hear  between  the  cups  of  wine: 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  KING  ADMETUS  331 

And  so,  well  pleased  with  being  soothed 

Into  a  sweet  half-asleep, 
Three  times  his  kingly  beard  he  smoothed, 

And  miade  him  viceroy  o'er  his  sheep. 

His  words  were  simple  words  enough, 

And  yet  he  used  them  so, 
That  what  in  other  mouths  was  rough 

In  his  seemed  musical  and  low. 


Men  called  him  but  a  shiftless  youth, 

In  whom  no  good  they  saw; 
And  yet,  unwittingly,  in  truth, 

They  made  his  careless  words  their  law. 

They  knew  not  how  he  learned  at  all, 

For  idly,  hour  by  hour, 
He  sat  and  watched  the  dead  leaves  fall, 

Or  inused  upon  a  common  flower. 

It  seemed  the  loveliness  of  things 

Did  teach  him  all  their  use, 
For,  in  mere  weeds,  and  stones  and  springs, 

He  found  a  healing  power  profuse. 

Men  granted  that  his  speech  was  wise. 

But,  when  a  glance  they  caught 
Of  his  slim  grace  and  woman's  eyes. 

They  laughed,  and  called  him  good-for-naugK. 


332  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  KING  ADiMETUS 

Yet,  after  he  was  dead  and  gone, 

And  e  'en  his  memory  dim, 
Earth  seemed  more  sweet  to  live  upon, 

More  full  of  love,  because  of  him. 

And  day  by  day  more  holy  grew 

Each  spot  where  he  had  trod, 
Till  after-poets  only  knew 

Their  first-born  brother  as  a  god. 

—  James  Russell  Lowell. 


The  Blessed  Damozel 


333 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL  335 

THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 

Eossetti's  The  Blessed  Damozel  and  Poe's  The  Raven 
should  be  read  together.  In  the  latter,  a  man  is  ex- 
pressing his  mood  of  hopeless  despair  over  the  death  of 
the  loved  Lenore.  Rossetti  reverses  the  situation.  The 
Blessed  Damozel  expresses  the  longings  of  a  young 
woman  as  she  leans  out  from  the  ramparts  of  Heaven 
and  waits  for  her  lover,  who  is  still  on  earth.  The  Raven 
has  no  ray  of  hope.  The  mood  of  despair  is  as  black  as 
the  emblematic  bird  that  sits  on  the  bust  of  Pallas  over 
the  door.  The  Blessed  Damozel  is  full  of  sad  hope  and 
certain  faith  —  "  '  for  he  will  come, '  she  said. ' ' 

Rossetti 's  poem  is  steeped  in  medieval  religious  mysti- 
cism. The  conception  of  Heaven,  with  the  angels  flying 
to  and  fro,  the  mystic  numbers  three  and  seven,  the 
w'hite  rose  of  the  saints,  Queen  Mary  and  her  hand- 
maidens, is  wholly  medieval ;  and  to  appreciate  the  poem 
in  all  its  tender  lovelliness  one  must  give  his  imagination 
full  sympathetic  play  \nth  these  old  symbols  so  rich  in 
their  associations  with  the  faith  of  centuries.  Yet  the 
realism  is  sometimes  almost  startling,  so  vividly  are  the 
concrete  details  brought  before  our  eyes.  The  curled 
moon  flutters  like  a  feather  far  down  the  gulf  of  space ; 
each  prayer  is  * '  like  a  little  cloud, ' '  and  one  sees  it  melt 
away,  being  granted;  souls  go  by  "like  thin  flames"; 
far  below,  the  earth  "spins  like  a  fretful  midge";  even 
the  rampart  of  God's  House,  with  its  bar  of  gold  over 
which  the  waiting  maiden  leans,  seems  to  be  definitely 
fixed  in  place  and  appearance. 


336  THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 

As  mysticism  and  the  sense  of  detailed  fact  are  so 
strikingly  combined,  so  are  the  impressions  of  infinite 
distance  and  of  nearness.  The  Blessed  Damozel  stands 
over  the  sheer  depths  beyond  where  space  begins,  so 
high  that  looking  downward  she  scarce  can  see  the  sun, 
and  the  paths  of  the  angels  are  vague  in  distant  spheres, 
and  yet  the  lover  lying  under  the  tree  on  earth  is  so 
near  that  he  can  see  her  smiles  and  hear  her  tears. 
With  such  consummate  art  are  these  impressions  of  dis- 
tance and  nearness  combined  that  the  perspective  is  al- 
ways true. 

But  even  more  worthy  of  study  and  of  admiration 
than  the  combination  of  mysticism  with  realism  or  the 
blending  of  the  feeling  of  infinite  distance  with  the  sense 
of  nearness  is  the  portrayal  of  human  love  in  the  courts 
of  Heaven.  As  pure  as  the  angels  it  is  —  as  pure  as 
Mary  and  her  saints  —  and  yet  it  is  the  very  love  where- 
with the  Blessed  Damozel  had  loved  when  she  and  her 
lover  went  hand  in  hand  upon  the  earth  —  the  same 
love,  only  grown  stronger  and  purer.  Notice  how  the 
sense  of  its  beauty,  its  purity,  and  its  strength  makes 
her  brave  to  say  that  when  he  comes  she  will  take  him 
by  the  hand  and  lead  him  straight  to  the  very  throne  of 
God.  As  infinite  space  and  a  little  patch  of  earth  meet 
in  this  poem,  so  do  love  immortal  and  human  love.  Not 
even  Dante  has  portrayed  the  divine  passion  with  more 
boldness  or  more  delicacy. 

And  so  we  may  say  that  although  tlie  poem  is  as  it 
were  a  mystic  vision  from  out  the  I\Tiddle  Ages,  it 
touches  the  very  springs  of  life  and  love  to-day.  It  is 
universal.     Whether  human  love  shall  have  the  power 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL  337 

to  "carry  over"  beyond  the  gold  bar  of  the  ramparts  of 
Heaven,  is  a  question  very  close  to  the  most  vital  in- 
terests of  every  man 's  life. 

The  poem  is  eminently  pictorial,  as  many  of  its  au- 
thor's poems  are.  For  Rossetti  was  a  painter  as  well  as 
a  poet,  and  one  of  his  large  pictures  has  for  its  subject 
The  Blessed  Damozel.  Indeed  he  has  two  pictures  il- 
lustrating this  theme.  The  figure,  the  Blessed  Damozel, 
is  life-size.  She  is  elad  in  a  garment  of  pale  green  and 
her  hair  is  deep  gold.  Below  the  bar  on  which  she 
leans  are  two  angels,  with  wings  of  light  reddisih  purple, 
holding  branches  of  palm.  In  the  background  are 
countless  figures  of  lovers,  re-united.  These  are  omitted 
from  Rossetti 's  replica  of  the  original  picture.  In  a 
lower  panel  of  the  picture,  the  lover  lies  under  a  tree, 
his  head  resting  on  his  hand.  He  is  looking  up  ex- 
pectantly. A  sword  rests  by  his  side  in  medieval 
knightly  fashion. 

The  reader  will,  of  course,  not  fail  to  notice  that  the 
lines  in  parentheses  are  always  the  words  of  the  lover  on 
earth,  and  not  of  the  Blessed  Damozel,  and  that  the 
*'ripe  com"  in  the  beautiful  figure  of  the  second  stanza 
is  the  English  use  of  the  word  corn,  meaning  wheat. 
The  ' '  Dove ' '  in  the  fifteenth  stanza  is  the  Holy  Spirit. 

Stopford  Brooke  says:  "It  is  a  lovely  thing,  as  ex- 
quisite in  tenderness  and  sublimated  thought  as  it  is  in 
form  and  finish.  He  was  only  twenty  when  he  wrote  it, 
and  his  art  is  as  true  and  fine  in  it  as  in  the  best  of  the 
later  sonnets.  So  swiftly  does  genius  grow  to  its  full 
height.  The  subject  is  noble  and  appeals  to  universal 
feeling.    No  one  who  has  loved  and  lost,  and  waits  here 


338  THE   BLESSED   DAMOZEL 

below,  or  there  above,  but  must  have  cherished  its  main 
thought  aud  felt  its  main  emotion.  The  ornament  is 
beautiful,  and  is  charged  with  human  feeling.  It  is  not 
the  work  of  fancy  but  of  imagination  piercing  with  vital 
power  into  the  heart  of  the  subject,  and  radiating  new 
thought,  new  feeling,  through  every  verse,  even  every 
line." 


THE   BLESSED   DAMOZEL 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 

From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven ; 
Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 

Of  waters  stilled  at  even ; 
She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand,  5 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 

No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 
But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 

For  service  meetly  worn ;  10 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 

Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Her  seemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone  15 

From  that  still  look  of  hers; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 


THE    BLESSED   DAINIOZEL  339 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.    .    .    Yet  now,  and  in  this  place,  20 

Surely  she  leaned  o  'er  me  —  her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.     .     .     . 
Nothing:  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house  25 

That  she  was  standing  on; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun ; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun.  30 

It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth  35 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 

'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims, 
Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 

Their  heart-remembered  names ;  40 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made  45 


340  THE   BLESSED   DAMOZEL 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 
Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce  50 

Through  all  the  world.     Her  gaze  still  strove 
Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 

It's  path ;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 
The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

The  sun  was  gone  now ;  the  curled  moon  55 

"Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf;  and  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together.  60 

(Ah  sweet !    Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 
Fain  to  be  hearkened  ?     "When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side  65 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair?) 

"I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me. 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
* '  Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven  ?  —  on  earth, 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  prayed?  70 

Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid? 


THE    BLESSED    DAMOZEL  341 

"When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him  75 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

*  *  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Ocoult,  withheld,  untrod,  80 

"Whose  la-mps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God ; 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

* '  We  two  will  lie  i '  the  shadow  of  85 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  Name  audibly.  90 

* '  And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so, 
The  songs  I  sing  here ;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  'hushed  and  slow, 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause,  95 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know." 

(Alas!    We  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st! 
Yea,  one  -wast  thou  wath  me 
That  once  of  old.    But  shall  God  lift 


342  THE   BLESSED   DAMOZEL 

To  endless  unity  100 

The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 
"Was  but  its  love  for  thee?) 

""We  tAvo, "  she  said,  "will  seek  the  groves 

"Where  the  lady  ]\Tary  is, 
"With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names  105 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  ]\Iagdalen, 

Margaret,  and  Rosalys. 

"Circlewdse  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded,  110 

Into  the  fine  cloth,  white  like  flame, 
"Weaving  the  golden  thread, 

To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 
"Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

"He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb:  115 

Then  ^^^ll  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak ; 
And  the  dear  IMother  w\\]  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak.  120 

"Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand 

To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 

Bowed  with,  their  aureoles: 
And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing  125 

To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 


THE   BLESSED   DAMOZEL  343 

"There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 

Thus  much  for  him  and  me :  — 
Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 

With  Love,  only  to  be,  130 

As  then  awhile,  forever  now 

Together,  -I  and  he. ' ' 

She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said, 

Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, — 
"All  this  is  when  he  comes."    She  ceased.  135 

The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  fill'd 
With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 

Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smil'd. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 
Was  vague  in  distant  spheres :  140 

And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 
The  golden  barriers, 

And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands. 
And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears.) 

—  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


A  Group  of  Sonnets 


345 


A  GROUP  OF  SONNETS  347 


"A  GROUP  OF  SONNETS 


Do  you  know  what  to  look  for  when  you  read  a  sonnet  ? 
A  sonnet  is  a  complete  lyric  of  fourteen  rhymed  lines, 
each  line  containing  five  time-units  or  feci,  composed  of 
alternately  unaccented  and  accented  syllables.  Such  a 
line  or  verse  is  called  iambic  pentameter.  The  grouping 
and  lining  of  these  fourteen  lines  depends  upon  whether 
the  sonnet  is  of  the  "Italian  tj^pe"  or  of  the  "English 
type,"  for  there  are  two  distinct  sonnet-forms  in  English 
literature  —  besides  «nany  variations  which  will  not  be 
discussed  here.  Before  one  can  read  a  sonnet  intelli- 
gently one  must  know  the  nature  and  purpose  of  the 
sonnet-form  to  which  it  belongs. 

What  is  known  as  the  Italian  sonnet-form  consists  of 
fourteen  lines  divided  into  two  groups,  the  first  of  eight 
lines  (called  the  octave)  and  the  second  of  six  lines 
(called  the  sestet).  The  whole  poem  contains  a  single 
idea  or  emotion,  but  at  the  end  of  the  octave  there  is  a 
distinct  turn  or  change  in  this  idea  or  emotion.  The 
octave  sometimes  presents  a  situation  and  the  sestet  a 
comment ;  or  they  may  be  a  fact  and  an  application ;  or 
a  problem  and  a  solution ;  or  a  premise  and  a  conclu- 
sion. Whatever  we  may  call  them,  the  flow  and  ebb  of 
the  main  current  of  the  poem  are  distinctly  marked,  the 
tone  of  the  last  group  of  six  lines  being  different  from  the 
first  group  of  eight  lines.  In  reading  a  sonnet  of  this 
type  one  should  look  for  this  division  in  its  structure 
and  this  change  in  its  tone.     The  arrangement  of  the 


348  A  GROUP  OF  SONNETS 

rhymes  in  the  first  group  is  always  the  same ;  in  the  sec- 
ond group  it  may  vary  slightly. 

The  Italian  form  of  the  sonnet  may  be  seen  to  good 
effect  in  Wordsworth's  It  Is  a  Beauteous  Evening.  The 
octave  (the  first  eight  lines)  describes  a  tranquil  and 
brooding  evening  by  the  sea.  The  sestet  (the  last  six 
lines)  is  a  tribute  to  the  poet's  sister  Dorothy,  sug- 
gested by  the  influence  of  the  scene  upon  himself.  It  is 
a  situation  and  a  comment.  The  emotional  strain  of  the 
poem  is  continuous,  but  there  is  a  turn  in  it  at  the 
division  between  octave  and  sestet.  The  flow  and  the 
return  are  very  distinct.  In  the  first  part  the  reflective 
nature  of  the  poet  is  revealed,  in  the  second  part  the 
childlike  nature  of  his  sister. 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free ; 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 

Breathless  with  adoration ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquility ; 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea ; 

Listen !  the  mighty  being  is  awake 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder  —  everlastingly. 

Dear  child !  dear  girl  that  walkest  with  me  here, 
If  thou  appear  untouch 'd  by  solemn  thought 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 
Thou  licst  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year, 

And  worship 'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

—  William  Wordsworth. 


A  GROUL'  OF  SONNETS  349 

In  Milton 's  noble  sonnet  on  his  blindness,  the  rhetorical 
division  occurs  in  the  middle  of  the  eighth  line.  The 
octave  presents  the  situation:  his  blindness;  the  sestet, 
the  philosophical  comment :  service  through  waiting. 
There  is  one  eentral  idea  or  emotional  strain,  but  it  has 
two  movements :  the  flow  of  the  octave  and  the  return  of 
the  sestet. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 

Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  he  returning  chide  — 
Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied? 

I  fondly  ask :  —  But  patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies ;  God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work,  or  his  own  gifts :  who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best:  His  state 
Is  kingly;  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed 
And  post  0  'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest :  — 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait. 

—  John  Milton. 

A  slight  variation  of  the  Italian  form  is  found  in 
Keats 's  Grasshopper  and  Cricket.  The  continuous  theme 
of  the  persistence  of  poetry  on  earth  is  developed  in  two 
separate  applications  or  illustrations,  one  in  the  octave 
and  one  in  the  sestet.  It  is  a  twofold  expression  of  the 
same  thought ;  and  yet  the  latter  division  may  be  said  to 


350  A  GROUP  OF  SONNETS 

contain  a  comiment  upon  the  former  in  the  statement  that 
the  cricket's  song  reminds  one  of  the  grasshopper's  song 
among  the  grassy  hills. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead: 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead ; 

That  is  the  Grasshopper 's  —  he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury, —  he  has  never  done 
"With  his  delights ;  for  when  tired  out  with  fun 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never: 
On  a  lone  winter  evening,  'when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 
The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost. 
The  Grasshopper 's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

— :  John  Keats. 

Rossetti's  powerful  lyric  called  Lost  Days  is  a  perfect 
example  of  the  pure  Italian  sonnet-form.  In  the  first 
eight  lines  he  imagines  his  lost  days  lying  in  the  street 
as  they  fell,  and  asks,  if  he  could  see  them,  would  they 
be  wheat  or  coins  or  drops  of  blood  or  spilt  water  ? 

The  comment  or  application  follows  in  the  conclud- 
ing six  lines,  and  the  reader  perceives  that  the  tone  is 
distinctly  different.  Each  day  is  a  murdered  self  that 
cries  aloud  through  all  eternity.  The  flow  and  ebb  in 
the  wave  of  thought  are  presented  with  striking  artistic 
effect. 


A  GROUP  OF  SONNETS  351 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day, 
What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on  the  street 
Lie  as  they  fell?    Would  they  be  ears  of  wheat 

Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay? 

Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still  to  pay? 
Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet  ? 
Or  such  spilt  water  as  in  dreams  must  cheat 

The  undying  throats  of  Hell,  athirst  alway? 

I  do  not  see  them  here ;  but  after  death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see, 

Each  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low  last  breath. 
"I  am  thyself, —  what  hast  thou  done  to  me?" 

'  *  And  I  —  and  I  —  thyself, "  (lo !  each  one  saith) 
**And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity!" 

—  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 

(Compare  this  sonnet,  in  both  form  and  substance,  with  Emer- 
son's Days.) 

The  other  type  of  sonnet  is  called  the  English  or  the 
Shakespearean  form.  Here  the  fourteen  lines  are  divided 
into  three  groups  of  four  lines  each  (quatrains),  and  a 
couplet.  Each  of  these  quatrains  presents  a  more  or 
less  distinct  thought,  and  the  concluding  two  lines 
(couplet)  bind  them  all  together  —  there  is  a  gradual 
rise  of  emotion  and  thought  to  an  epigrammatic  climax  in 
the  last  two  lines.  Thus  the  whole  poem  leaves  a  single 
impression,  just  as  the  Italian  sonnet-form  does.  In  the 
Skakespearean  sonnet  the  verses  rhyme  as  follows:  first 
and  third,  second  and  fourth,  and  so  on  —  up  to  the  last 
two  which  rhyme  with  each  other. 


352  A  GROUP  OF  SONNETS 

Shakespeare's  beautiful  73rd  Sonnet  illustrates 
admirably  the  type  of  sonnet  called  the  English,  or  the 
Shakespearean  form.  The  general  theme  is  love  or 
friendship  in  old  age.  The  idea  of  old  age  is  presented 
in  three  different  comparisons.  The  first  quatrain  is 
a  picture  of  autumn  with  its  naked  boughs  from  which 
the  singing  birds  have  departed.  The  second  quatrain  is 
a  description  of  twilight  and  the  approaching  night.  In 
the  third  group  of  four  lines  a  dying  fire  is  shown  on 
its  death-bed  of  ashes.  Then  comes  the  final  couplet  bind- 
ing the  whole  poem  into  a  unit  with  the  thought  — 

This  thou  perceivest,  which  makes  thy  love  more  strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few  do  hang 

Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin's  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 


In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 

Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 


In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire. 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie 

As  the  deathbed  whereon  it  must  expire, 

Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish  'd  by : 


A  GROUP  OF  SONNETS  353 

—  This   thou   perceiv'st,   which   makes   thy   love   more 

strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

—  William  Shakespeare, 


Shakespeare's  famous  29th  Sonnet  has  for  its  theme 
the  consolation  of  love  or  friendship.  The  mood  of  de- 
spair is  presented  through  different  comparisons  and 
with  deepening  intensity  to  the  middle  of  the  third  qua- 
train, when  there  comes  a  sudden  burst  of  joy  like  the 
singing  of  a  lark  at  heaven's  gate.  The  explanation 
comes  in  the  closing  couplet,  which  gives  unity  to  the 
poem  and  serves  also  as  an  epigrammatic  climax. 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes 

I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 

And  look  upon  myself  and  curse  my  fate ; 

Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 

Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possest, 

Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  vscope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 

Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  Thee  —  and  then  my  state, 

Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's,  gatej 


354  A  GROUP  OF  SONNETS 

For  thy  sweet  love  remember 'd,  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings, 

—  "William  Shakespeare. 

By  reading  aloud  these  examples  of  the  two  typioai  sonnet-forms, 
one  can  test  for  himself  the  statement  made  by  Theodore  Watts 
Dunton  that  the  purpose  of  the  Italian  form  is  to  produce  a  certain 
melodic  effect  on  the  ear,  and  that  "the  quest  of  the  Shakespearean 
sonnet  is  sweetness." 

Because  of  the  brevity  of  the  sonnet,  much  more  is 
suggested  than  expressed ;  hence  it  calls  for  the  use  of 
our  imagination.  There  is  but  one  idea,  but  it  nearly 
always  has  far-reaching  suggestions.  Some  of  the  great- 
est poems  in  English  literature  are  in  this  form,  some  of 
the  great  minds  choosing  it  to  express  the  concentrated 
passion  of  their  lives.  ' '  A  sonnet  is  like  a  cameo,  rich  in 
material,  and  delicate  and  conventional  in  detail. ' ' 


Biographical  Notes  of  the  Authors 
Represented 


355 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  357 


BIOGRAPHICAL     NOTES     OF     THE     AUTHORS 
REPRESENTED 

Arnold,  Matthew. — Born  at  Laleham,  England,  1822, 
and  was  buried  there  1888.  His  father  was  Dr.  Thomas 
Arnold,  the  famous  head  master  of  Rugby.  Arnold  was 
educated  at  Winchester  and  Rugby  and  at  Balliol  Col- 
lege, Oxford.  After  teaching  at  Rugby  for  a  short  time 
he  was  appointed  inspector  of  schools  under  the  govern- 
ment, and  served  with  unflinching  faithfulness  for 
thirty-five  years.  For  ten  years  of  this  time  he  was  also 
Professor  of  Poetry  at  Oxford.  Arnold  is  famous,  not 
only  as  a  great  poet,  but  also  as  a  great  critic.  His 
poetry  expresses  the  spiritual  unrest  of  the  age  with  rare 
grace  and  power,  and  is  characterized  by  classic  re- 
straint and  perfection.  Read  Dover  Beach,  The  Scholar 
Gypsy,  Philomela,  Bnghy  Chapel,  Sorai  and  Rustum, 
Thyrsis,  and  Stanzas  from  the  Grande  Chartreuse.  As 
the  student's  literary  taste  improves,  his  liking  for  Ar- 
nold increases. 

Browning,  Robert. — Born  May  7,  1812,  at  Camber- 
well,  England.  He  was  educated  privately,  devoted 
himself  wholly  to  literature,  and  died  in  1889,  in  Italy, 
where  he  spent  muob  of  his  life.  His  wife  was  Eliza- 
beth Barrett  Browning,  also  a  distinguished  poet. 
Browning's  fame  came  slowly,  his  genius  was  much  dis- 
puted by  critics,  and  for  a  long  time  he  was  ignored  by 
the  public.  His  language  is  eccentric  and  sometimes 
obscure,  but  his  thought  is  deep  and  subtle ;  and  Brown- 


358  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  OF  THE 

ing  and  Tennyson  stand  side  by  side  as  the  great  poets 
of  the  latter  part  of  the  nineteenth  century.  His  theme 
is  always  the  human  soul,  generally  studied  under  ex- 
ceptional cireuuiistances.  The  Ring  and  the  Book, 
Pippa  Passes,  My  Last  Duchess,  Prospice,  Said,  Bahhi 
Ben  Ezra,  The  Laboratory,  Childe  lioland  to  the  Dark 
Tower  Came,  Abt  Voglcr,  The  Bishop  Orders  His  Tomh 
at  St.  Praxed's  Church,  and  Andrea  del  Sarto,  are  some 
of  the  great  things  written  by  him. 

Burns,  Robert. — Born  January  25,  1759,  in  Ayrshire, 
Scotland,  the  son  of  a  small  farmer.  The  family  was 
poor  and  the  son  received  but  little  regular  education ; 
he  was  "a  hardworked  plowboy. "  But  he  was  a  great 
reader,  having  a  book  before  him  even  at  meal  times. 
He  early  began  writing  songs  of  country  life  that  at- 
tracted attention,  and  he  was  recognized  and  lionized,  as 
a  real  genius.  In  1789  he  was  appointed  exciseman  for 
the  government.  He  died  July  21,  1796,  only  thirty- 
seven  years  of  age,  having  led  a  life  mixed  of  misery,  re- 
morse, and  happiness,  his  few  peaceful  years  being  those 
he  lived  as  a  farmer  in  Dumfrieshire  wdth  his  wife,  Jean 
Armour.  Like  Poe,  although  his  life  was  miserable,  his 
fame  is  immortal.  His  love  songs  are  among  the  finest 
ever  written.  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  Tarn 
O'Shanter,  The  Tiva  Dogs,  To  a  Mountain  Daisy,  To  a 
Mouse,  To  Mary  in  Heaven,  Highland  Mary,  Ye  Banks 
and  Braes  0'  Bonnie  Doon,  Flow  Gently  Sweet  Afton, 
O  My  Luve's  like  a  Red  Red  Rose,  Scots  ivha  hae  wi' 
Wallace  Bled,  and  Is  There  for  Honest  Poverty,  are  the 
glory  of  Scotland's  literature. 


AUTHORS  RErRESENTED  359 

Byron,  George  Gordon  (Lord). — Born  in  London, 
Januaiy  22,  1788,  and  died  of  a  fever  at  Missolonghi, 
Greece,  October  19,  1824,  while  aiding  the  Greeks  to  free 
themselves  from  Turkish  despotism.  By  birth  he  was 
entitled  to  a  seat  in  the  English  House  of  Lords,  but  he 
spent  his  life  in  travel  and  in  writing.  His  first  book 
of  poems,  Hours  of  Idleness,  was  ridiculed  by  critics,  but 
he  lived  to  see  himself  the  most  famous  author  in  all 
Europe,  although  he  died  at  thirty-six.  His  personality 
as  much  as  his  literary  genius  contributed  to  the  spell 
which  he  thrcAV  over  the  world.  Proud,  passionate, 
handsome,  fascinating,  he  captivated  all  who  came 
within  his  reach.  The  story  of  his  own  exploits  was  as 
interesting  to  the  public  as  anything  he  wrote.  After 
his  death  his  fame  greatly  diminished,  but  his  place  in 
the  literary  world  is  still  a  large  one.  Childe  Harold's 
Pilgrimage  and  Don  Juan  are  his  greatest  productions. 
His  greatest  dramas  are  Manfred  and  Cain.  Among  his 
shorter  poems  The  Prisoner  of  Chillo7i,  The  Destruction 
of  Sennacherib,  She  Walks  in  Beauty,  To  Thomas  Moore, 
are  representative. 

Cowper,  William.— Born  1731  and  died  1800.  His 
name  is  inseparably  associated  with  the  little  English 
midland  village  of  Olney,  though  as  a  law  student  he 
lived  in  London.  He  was  a  gentle  and  religious  spirit, 
depressed  by  melancholy.  He  had  fits  of  insanity  and 
he  attempted  suicide,  but  he  had  also  a  fine  touch  of 
humor,  as  everybody  knows  from  his  amusing  ballad 
John  Gilpin's  Ride.     His  own  line  — 

I  was  a  stricken  deer  that  left  the  herd  long  since — ■ 


360  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  OF  THE 

is  the  very  essence  of  pathos.  His  longest  poem  is  The 
Task,  but  his  best  poems  are  Luics  on  Receipt  of  My 
Mother's  Picture,  Loss  of  the  Royal  George,  To  Mary, 
and  The  Castaway  —  the  last  being  a  ery  of  despair. 

Dryden,  John. — Born  in  Northamptonshire,  England, 
1606,  educated  at  Cambridge,  and  died,  1687.  He  was 
the  greatest  literary  figure  of  the  Restoration  Period. 
He  was  critic,  poet,  dramatist,  and  the  founder  of  mod- 
ern prose.  His  poems,  mostly  satirical,  are  not  generally 
read  to-day  except  by  students,  but  Alexander's  Feast 
and  one  or  two  others  still  hold  their  place  in  popular 
favor.  He  represented  the  spirit  of  his  age,  and  his 
masterful  mind  sums  up  for  us  its  whole  mental  temper. 
His  artistic  skill  and  literary  quality  at  their  best  may 
be  seen  in  the  ode  Alexander's  Feast  in  this  volume. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo.— Born  May  25,  1803,  in 
Boston,  where  he  resided  for  thirty  years,  and  died  April 
27,  1882,  at  Concord,  where  his  home  was  the  literary 
centre  of  America.  He  was  graduated  from  Harvard  in 
1821,  and  some  years  later  from  the  Harvard  Divinity 
School.  For  a  few  years  he  engaged  in  the  active  min- 
istry of  the  Unitarian  Church  in  Boston.  The  rest  of 
his  life  was  devoted  to  lecturing,  writing  and  thinking, 
with  three  visits  to  Europe.  He  was  our  greatest  seer 
and  our  most  original  thinker.  Perhaps  America  has 
produced  no  finer  mind  than  his.  His  writings  are  of 
two  classes  —  essays  and  poems,  for  his  lectures  are  really 
essays.  Such  poems  as  The  Problem,  The  Rhodora,  The 
Concord  Hymn,  Each  and  All,  Brahma,  The  Snow 
Storm,  Good  Bye,  Wood  Notes,  and  Teiinimis  are  im- 


AUTHORS  REPRESENTED  S61 

mortal.  Among  his  greatest  essays  are  Nature,  The 
American  Scholar,  Self-Reliance,  Friendship,  Compen- 
sation, History,  and  Character.  No  other  writer  has  so 
enriched  American  thought;  no  other  writer  has  had 
such  influence  upon  the  best  minds  of  the  country. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver. — Bom  in  County  Longford,  Ire- 
land, 1728,  spent  most  of  his  life  in  London,  and  died 
there  1774.  He  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dub- 
lin, and  at  Edinburgh,  studied  medicine,  wandered  about 
on  the  Continent,  and  tried  his  hand  at  many  things. 
When  he  took  up  authorship  for  a  livelihood  he  did 
much  hack  w^ork,  but  he  found  time  to  add  to  the  glory 
of  English  literature  by  writing  The  Traveller,  The  De- 
serted Village,  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  The  Good- 
Natured  Man,  and  She  Stoops  to  Conquer.  The  Vicar  was 
one  of  the  earliest  of  English  novels  and  is  still  a  prime 
favorite,  while  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  still  pleases  thou- 
sands from  the  amateur  or  the  regular  stage. 

Gray,  Thomas. — Born  1716,  died  1771,  and  was 
buried  at  Stoke  Poges  in  Buckinghamshire,  the  scene  of 
his  famous  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard.  Most  of 
his  life  he  lived  as  a  scholar  and  a  recluse  at  Cambridge 
University,  and  he  was  the  greatest  scholar  among  the 
English  writers  of  his  time.  He  wrote  very  little,  but 
his  intellectual  interests  were  of  wide  range,  covering 
ancient  and  modern  literature,  music,  painting,  archi- 
tecture, and  natural  science.  His  Elegy  is  the  most 
popular  poem  in  the  English  language.  Other  im- 
X>ortant  poems  are  The  Progress  of  Poesy,  On  a  Distant 
Prospect  of  Eaton  College,  and  The  Bard. 


3G2  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  OF  THE 

Herrick,  Robert. — Born  1591  in  London,  but  spent 
most  of  his  life  as  vicar  of  a  country  church  in  Devon- 
shire. His  poems  mostly  deal  with  the  simple  merry- 
makings of  country  life,  but  some  of  them  are  of  a  re- 
ligious oharacter.  The  joy  of  unspoiled  rural  living  is 
the  dominant  note  in  his  most  exquisite  lyrics,  for  he 
seems  to  have  dwelt  always  in  Arcadia.  Corinna's  Go- 
ing a-Maying,  Night  Piece  to  Julia,  and  Gather  Ye  Rose- 
huds  are  among  his  best.  The  Litany  is  doubtless  the 
masterpiece  among  his  religious  poems.  Herrick  died 
1674,  at  the  age  of  83. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell. — Born  in  Cambridge,  IMass- 
achusetts,  August  29,  1809,  and  died  in  Boston  in  1894. 
He  was  educated  at  Harvard,  graduating  ihere  in  the 
famous  class  of  1829.  For  thirty-five  years  he  was  pro-- 
fessor  of  anatomy  and  physiology  in  that  institution. 
He  was  a  p'oet,  an  essayist,  a  novelist,  a  man  of  science,  a 
wit,  a  humorist,  a  teacher  —  and  famous  in  everything  lie 
tried.  His  writings  are  the  best  representation  in  our 
literature  of  the  cultured  life  of  Boston.  "He  was  the 
laureate  of  Harvard  and  of  Boston;"  In  poetry  his  best 
work  is  The  Chamhered  Nautilus,  The  Last  Leaf,  Old 
Ironsides,  The  One-Hoss  Shay,  and  The  Living  Temple. 
His  informal  essaj^s  are  grouped  in  the  Autocrat  Series 
■ —  The  Autocrat  at  the  BreaJifast  Table,  The  Professor 
at  the  Breakfast  Table,  The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast  Table, 
and  Over  the  Teacups.  The  latter  was  written  when  he 
was  eighty  years  of  age.  His  novels  are  Elsie  Venner, 
The  Guardian  Angel,  and  A  Mortal  Antipathy,  all  deal- 
ing with  the  problem  of  heredity.    Holmes  was  not  a 


AUTHORS  REPRESENTED  363 

profound  or  original  thinker,  but  he  knew  many  sides  of 
life  remarkably  well  and  he  told  what  he  knew  with 
great  grace  and  polish. 

Keats,  John. — Born  in  London,  October  29,  1795. 
Was  apprenticed  for  five  years  to  a  surgeon,  but  took  to 
verse-making  and  abandoned  the  profession  of  surgery. 
His  health  was  not  robust  and  in  1820  he  went  to  Italy. 
He  died  there  in  1821  of  consumption  and  was  buried  in 
the  Protestant  cemetery  at  Rome,  Although  he  died  at 
twenty-five  Matthew  Arnold  classes  him  with  Shakes- 
peare. Certainly  so  great  a  name  in  poetry  was  never 
made  so  young.  There  is  nothing  greater  of  their  kind 
in  English  literature  than  the  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  Ode 
on  a  Grecian  Urn,  To  Autumn,  On  First  Looking  into 
Chapman's  Homer,  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,  The  Eve 
of  St.  Agnes,  and  Lamia. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth. — Born  at  Portland, 
]\raine,  February  27,  1807,  was  graduated  from  Bowdoin 
College  in  1825,  studied  for  the  next  three  years  in 
France,  Spain,  Italy,  and  Germany,  taught  modern 
languages  for  five  years  at  Bowdoin,  again  studied  two 
years  abroad,  and  then  began  his  work  as  professor  of 
modern  languages  at  Harvard,  which  he  continued  until 
1854.  From  that  date  until  his  death,  in  Cambridge,  in 
1882,  he  devoted  himself  to  literary  work.  While 
abroad  and  during  his  career  as  a  college  professor  he 
wrote  much  in  both  verse  and  prose.  He  is  the  most 
widely  read  of  American  poets,  standing  supreme  as  the 
poet  of  the  heart  and  the  home.  He  added  beauty, 
grace,  sentiment  and  European  culture  to  American 


864  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  OF  THE 

poetry.  Evangeline,  Hiawatha,  The  Courtship  of  Miles 
Standish,  The  Rainy  Day,  The  Skeleton  in  Armor,  Excel- 
sior, The  Village  Blacksmith,  Th^.  Psahn  of  Life,  the  Old 
Clock  on  the  Stairs,  The  Arrow  and  the  Song,  The  Day 
Is  Done,  Paul  Revere' s  Ride,  The  Building  of  the  Ship, 
The  Bridge  and  The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  are  some 
of  his  poems  that  are  familiar  everywhere. 

Lowell,  James  Russell. — Born  in  Cambridge,  Massa- 
chusetts, February  22,  1819,  in  the  old  mansion  at  Elm- 
wood,  where  he  passed  his  life  and  where  he  died  in  1891. 
He  was  graduated  from  Harvard  in  1838.  In  1840  he 
was  admitted  to  the  bar,  but  never  practiced,  for  he  at 
once  devoted  himself  to  literature.  For  twenty  years, 
beginning  in  1857,  he  was  professor  of  modern  languages 
at  Harvard,  succeeding  Longfellow.  Like  Longfellow  he 
had  prepared  himself  by  studying  abroad.  He  was  one 
of  the  founders,  and  for  the  first  five  years  editor,  of  the 
Atlantic  Monthly,  and  later  was  one  of  the  editors  of  the 
North  American  Review.  In  1877  he  was  appointed  Min- 
ister to  Spain,  and  in  1880  was  transferred  to  London. 
Lowell  was  our  greatest  literary  critic,  one  of  our  great- 
est scholars,  and  in  some  respects  our  greatest  poet.  At 
his  death  in  1891  he  was  generally  considered  the  fore- 
most citizen  of  the  country.  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal, 
The  Biglow  Papers,  A  Fable  for  Critics,  The  Commemo- 
ration Ode,  Tinder  the  Willoivs,  The  First  Snow  Fall,  An 
Indian  Summer  Reverie,  Under  the  Old  Elm,  Rhoecus 
and  The  Cathedral  represent  his  best  poetry.  His  Es- 
says in  Criticism  are  the  high  water  mark  of  American 
criticism. 


AUTHORS  REPRESENTED  305 

Milton,  John. — Born  in  Bread  Street,  London,  De- 
cember 9,  1608,  and  died  in  that  city,  1674.  Next  to 
Shakespeare  he  was  the  greatest  of  English  poets.  He 
was  educated  at  Cambridge,  where  he  made  his  determina- 
tion to  be  a  poet  and  to  devote  his  time  wholly  to  lofty 
themes.  Twenty  years  of  his  life  were  spent  in  a  pamph- 
let war  on  the  civil  and  religious  abuses  of  his  time,  and 
as  Latin  secretary  to  Cromwell's  government,  but  Co- 
mas, LycidaSy  L' Allegro,  and  II  Penseroso  had  estab- 
lished his  fame.  When  his  "duties  as  a  patriot"  were 
done  he  turned  to  Paradise  Lost  and  made  the  greatest 
epic  in  the  language.  It  was  published  in  1667.  This 
was  followed  by  Paradise  Regained.  Both  of  these  were 
written  when  he  was  totally  blind.  Milton's  whole  life 
is  a  great  epic  in  itself,  and  a  study  of  it  thrills  one  with 
admiration  for  the  life  he  lived  no  less  than  for  the 
sublime  poetry  whioh  he  wrote. 

Rossetti,  D-ante  Gabriel. — Born  in  London  1828,  of 
three-fourths  Italian  and  one-fourth  English  blood,  edu- 
cated at  Oxford,  died  1882.  He  was  eminent  both  as  a 
painter  and  as  a.  poet.  Many  of  his  poems  are  full  of 
medieval  charm,  and  they  all  have  striking  pictorial 
qualities.  The  Blessed  Damozel,  Sister  Helen,  and  The 
King's  Tragedy  are  his  best.  Rossetti  had  remarkable 
command  of  the  sonnet  form;  this  is  shown  in  his  The 
House  of  Life,  a  hundred  and  one  sonnets  dealing  with 
love.  His  personality  was  exceptionally  attractive  and 
commanding,  and  he  was  one  of  the  most  interesting  fig- 
ures of  his  time. 


3GG  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  OF  THE 

Shakespeare,  William. — Born  at  Stratford-on-Avon, 
England,  April  23,  1564,  and  died  there  April  23,  1616. 
He  attended  a  school  of  academic  grade.  In  1582  he  mar- 
ried Anne  Hathaway,  daughter  of  a  neighboring  farmer. 
In  1585  he  went  to  London,  where  for  twenty  years  he 
made  his  home,  employed  in  some  capacity  at  one  of  the 
playhouses,  later  as  a  member  of  the  company,  and  in 
writing  his  immortal  dramas.  He  played  principal  parts 
in  his  own  dramas,  which  followed  one  another  in  rapid 
succession.  He  returned  to  Stratford-on-Avon  about 
1610  or  1612  in  good  circumstances.  Shakespeare's  name 
is  the  greatest  in  English  letters.  Hamlet,  Macbcih, 
Merchant  of  Venice,  Julius  Caesar,  The  Tempest,  Twelfth 
Night,  and  Lear  are  a  part  of  the  thought  of  the  English- 
speaking  world.  He  was  buried  in  the  parish  church  at 
Stratford,  and  his  tomb  bears  this  inscription,  written 
by  himself : 

"Good  friend  for  Jesus  sake  forbear 
To  dig  the  dust  enclosed  here  ; 
Blest  be  the  man  that  spares  these  stones 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones." 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe. — Born  1792,  the  son  of  Sir 

Timothy  Shelley  of  the  eountj^  of  Sussex,  England,  and 
was  drowned  1822  in  the  Gulf  of  Leghorn  on  the  Medi- 
terranean. His  body  was  burned  on  the  shore.  Lord 
Byron  and  other  friends  being  present,  and  his  ashes  were 
buried  near  the  grave  of  Keats  in  the  little  Protestant 
cemetery  in  Rome.  Shelley  studied  at  Eton  and  Oxford, 
but  was  expelled  from  Oxford  because  of  a  tract  on  athe- 
ism. He  was  the  poet  of  humanity  in  revolt,  and  he 
-was  the  most  gifted  lyric  poet  that  England  has  pro- 


AUTHORS  REPRESENTED  367 

duced.  Tlioiig-li  reviled  during  his  lifetime,  his  fame 
now  "fills  the  earth."  Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  The  Cloud, 
Alastor,  Arethusa,  Stanzas  Writte^i  in  Dejection  near 
Naples,  Prometheus  Unbound,  and  Adonais  (in  memory 
of  Keats)  give  an  idea  of  the  wonderful  world  of  imagi- 
nation in  which  Shelley  lived. 

Tennyson,  Alfred  (Lord). — Born  August  6,  1809,  at 
Somersby,  England,  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, and  devoted  his  whole  life  to  poetry.  His  reputa- 
tion grew  steadily.  In  1850  he  became  Poet  Laureate. 
Three  years  later  he  took  up  his  residence  at  Farringford 
in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  which  was  his  home  the  rest  of  his 
life.  In  1883  he  was  raised  to  the  Peerage.  The  story 
of  his  life  is  simple,  but  for  more  than  half  a  century 
"he  held  the  poetic  supremacy  almost  unchallenged," 
and  his  name  is  one  of  the  half  dozen  chief  names  in 
English  poetry.  He  died  October  6, 1892,  and  was  buried 
with  unequaled  solemnity  by  the  side  of  Chaucer  in 
Westminster  Abbey.  He  was  the  most  representative 
poet  of  the  last  half  of  the  19th  century.  His  greatest 
poems  are  The  Idylls  of  the  King,  In  Memoriayn,  LocJcsley 
Hall,  The  Palace  of  Art,  The  Lotus-Eaters,  The  Brook, 
Sir  Galahad,  Break,  Break,  Break,  Ulysses,  The  Vision 
of  Sin,  and  Crossing  the  Bar. 

Wordsworth,  William. — Bom  1770  at  Cockermouth 
on  the  Derwent  in  the  county  of  Cumberland,  England, 
and  died  1850  at  Rydal  Mount  in  the  Lake  District  and 
was  buried  at  Grasmere.  He  was  the  greatest  of  the  Eng- 
lish nature  poets,  the  poet  of  the  ne^v  democracy,  and, 
in  his  own  sphere,  the  greatest  of  English  bards.     He 


368  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

was  supremely  the  poet  of  nature  as  Shakespeare  was 
the  poet  of  man.  He  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  visited 
France  during  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  returned  to 
England  and  settled  in  the  beautifiil  Lake  District,  where 
he  lived  the  most  of  his  life.  His  genius  was  influenced 
by  his  sister  Dorothy,  by  Coleridge,  and  by  nature.  In 
him  we  have  a  great  example  of  plain  living  and  high 
thinking.  Such  poems  as  The  Solitary  Reaper,  The  Daffo- 
dils, Tintern  Aihey,  Ode  on  Immortality,  She  Was  a 
Phantom  of  Delight,  Michael,  To  Duty,  and  many  of  his 
sonnets  add  immortal  glory  to  English  poetry.  His  two 
long  poems,  The  Prelude  and  The  Excursion,  contain 
many  sandy  patches,  together  with  much  superb  poetry. 
He  was  made  Poet  Laureate  in  1843.  The  little  volume 
by  him  and  Coleridge  called  Lyrical  Ballads  and  pub- 
lished in  1798,  marks  the  beginning  of  a  new  era  —  the 
second  great  creative  period  —  in  English  literature. 


FAMOUS  POEMS  EXPLAINED 

By  WAITMAN  BARBE,  A.  M.,  LiTT.  D. 

Professor  of  English  in  West  Virginia  University. 
Cloth,  gilt  top,  237  pages  $1.00  postpaid 

Clear  explanations,  or  the  historical  settings,  are  given  of  Poe's 
The  Rai'cn,  and  I'lalume;  Byron's  The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib, 
The  l\Ii!/ht  Before  Waterloo,  and  The  Isles  of  Greece;  Emerson's  Each 
and  All;  Whitman's  O  Captain!  My  Captain!;  Holmes's  Old  Ironsides, 
and  The  Chambered  Nautilus;  Arnold's  Armageddon;  Bryant's  To  a 
Waterfowl ;  Whittier's  King  Solomon  and  the  Ants;  Burns's  Bannock- 
burn;  Kipling's  Recessional ;  Miller's  Columbus;  Southey's  The  Battle 
of  Blenheim;  Campbell's  Ilohenlinden;  Wolfe's  Burial  of  Sir  John 
Moore  —  and  more  than  forty  others. 

SOME  CRITICAL  OPINIONS. 

A  full  understanding  of  many  of  the  finest  pieces  in  the  standard 
readers  is  Impossible  without  some  help  from  the  outside  and  this  help 
the  teachers  are  generally  not  able  to  give  without  maljing  the  study 
and  research  for  which  they  have  neither  the  time  nor  the  opportunity. 
"Famous  Poems  Explained,"  by  Waitman  Barbe,  Litt.D.,  will  come  as 
a  great  boon  to  all  such  teachers.  —   Florida  School  Exponent. 

"Famous  Poems  Explained"  is  not  an  ordinary  annotated  collection 
of  poems.  It  is  a  book  on  an  entirely  different  principle  —  the  poems 
are  fully  discussed  and  explained  and  their  historical  and  literary  Inter- 
pretation given.  The  sub-title  says  that  it  is  Intended  as  a  "help  to 
reading  with  the  understanding,"  and  the  purpose  is  admirably  carried 
out. —  The  Westland  Educator. 

Every  teacher  knows  that  the  poetry  selections  are  the  most  diffi- 
cult to  teach,  to  get  the  pupils  interested  in  understandingly.  "Famous 
Poems  Explained"  will  be  heartily  welcomed,  and  it  is  sure  to  have  a 
very  large  sale. —  Dubuque  Telegraph-Herald. 

I  hardly  know  whether  to  admire  more  the  admirable  selection  of 
material  or  the  introductory  matter  which  gives  the  student  just  the 
point  of  view  and  the  neces'sary  Information  to  approach  the  selection 
Intelligently. —  Earl  Barnes. 

The  teaching  of  reading,  with  the  help,  of  this  book,  should  be  a 
genuine  pleasure".  High  school  teachers  as  well  as  teachers  In  the 
grades  and  country  schools  will  find  it  of  practical  value  to  them  and 
their  pupils. —  The  Progressive   Teacher,  Nashville. 

This  Is  the  hook  I  have  been  looking  for  for  a  long  time.  I 
am  using  it  in  my  classes  with  the  greatest  satisfaction. —  Sdsan  F. 
CHA.SB,  State  Normal  School,  Buffalo,  N.  Y. 

HINDS,  NOBLE  &  ELDREDGB 

31,  33,  35  West  15th  Street  New  York  City 


GOING    TO    COLLEGE 

By  WAITMAN  BARBE,  A.  M.,  LiTT.  D. 

Professor  of  En^lisb  in  West  Virgiaia  University. 
Cloth,  104  pages  SO  cents  postpaid 

A  discussion  of  the  value  of  higher  education,  including  letters 
from  Presidents  Eliot,  Hadley,  Wilson,  Harper,  Low,  Jordan,  Dwight, 
Patton,  Schurman,  Gilman,  Angell,  Adams,  Thwing,  Draper,  Rogers, 
Conaty,  Macljean,  Seelye,  Barrows,  Purinton  and  others  ;  Commissioner 
Harris,  Andrew  D.  White,  E.  A.  Winship,  E.  Benjamin  Andrews, 
Emerson  B.  White,  Francis  W.  Parl<er,  Richard  G.  Boone,  B.  A.  Hins- 
dale, Nicholas  Murray   Butler,  and  other  Eminent  Educators. 

SOME   CRITICAL    OPINIONS. 

It  Is  one  of  the  books  which  should  be  so  scattered  among  the 
common  foils  that  its  contents  will  become  common  property. —  David 
Stark  Jordan,  President  Leland  Stanford  University. 

It  is  a  most  interesting  and  fascinating  statement,  and  I  am  sure 
that  no  boy  or  girl  can  read  It  without  being  moved  to  lead  the  best 
life. —  Charles  F.  Thwing,  President  Western  Reserve  University. 

I  find  It  interesting  and  convincing. —  Chas.  W.  Eliot,  President 
Harvard  University. 

Allow  me  to  express  the  pleasure  which  I  have  felt  In  reading 
"Going  to  College."  It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  stated  the  case  ex- 
tremely well  from  all  sides. —  Arthur  T.  Hadley,  President  Yale 
University. 

We  are  all  indebted  to  you  for  having  prepared  it. — James  B. 
Angell,  President  University  of  Michigan. 

A  little  book,  "Goin^  to  College,"  by  Waitman  Barbe,  has  recently 
come  under  my  observation,  and  I  wish  it  could  fall  into  the  hands 
of  every  young  man  and  young  woman  who  has  or  can  make  oppor- 
tunity to  take  a  course  at  college,  and  who  is  debating  the  question. — 
Correspondent  in  Atlanta  Constitution. 

It  is  very  fine.  I  wish  we  had  several  thousand  copies  to  scatter 
all  over  Texas. — J.  C.  Lattimore,  President  Baylor  University. 

Mr.  Barbe's  book  Is  written  in  a  clear  and  fascinating  style,  while 
the  enthusiasm  of  a  high  ideal  pervades  it  all.  We  wish  It  could  be  in 
the  library  of  every  high  school,  academy,  and  seminary,  in  the  land  ; 
better  yet,  every  principal  and  teacher  may  safely  recommend  it  to 
their  students  as  early  as  these  important  views  of  life  can  be  seriously 
considered. — The  Evangelist,  New  York. 

HINDS,  NOBLE  &  BLDRBDGB 

31,  33,  35  West  15th  Street  New  York  City 


In  this  abridged  Loma  Doone  an  ideal  edition  of 
an  ideal  story  conies  into  the  hands  of  teachers  and 
scholars.  "77;^  bookis  toolorts'\'s,-:iys<mQoiovtX  bezt 
known  American  literary  men,  and  certainly  its  six 
or  seven  hundred  pages  as  found  in  the  other  text 
editions  have  either  kept  it  out  of  the  class-room  or 
restricted  its  use.  Yet  it  is  an  admirable  book  for 
the  school,  if  in  an  abbreviated  form.  That  the 
abridgement  and  the  annotations  were  done  by//.  C. 
Davis  is  a  sufficient  earnest  of  quality. 

The  story  is  a  rich  mine  of  historic  allusion.  It  is 
put  together  with  great  literary  skill.  It  has  admir- 
able points  for  the  teacher's  investigation.  And  it 
will  hold  the  pupils'  interest — for  the  unique  charac- 
ters who  stand  out  very  real  in  its  pages,  for  the 
quaintness  of  its  diction,  for  the  richness  of  its  humor, 
and  for  its  wonderful  descriptions  of  all  things  in 
nature. 

Our  edition— text,  notes,  prefaces  and  glossary- 
is  not  300  pages  in  length,  yet  the  siory  is  here  with 
no  essential  omitted.  The  historical  setting  is  com- 
plete, and  descriptions  of  spring  and  summer,  autumn 
and  winter,  bud  and  flower,  harvest  and  revel,  sufTcr 
not  at  all  from  omitted  detail.  The  details  of  the 
Doones'  forays  and  deviltries,  the  unsuccessful  at- 
tacks upon  their  stronghold,  the  repetitionsofLorna's 
ancestry,  the  longstory  of  Uncle  ReubenHuckaback's 
mine,  and  the  non-essential  interview  with  Mother 
Meldrum,  and  whatever  else  halts  the  Story,  have 
been  shortened  or  entirely  omitted. 

In  the  Life  of  the  A  uihor  we  tell  much  that  docs  not 
appear  in  other  editions.  His  school  ambitions,  his 
school  companions,  his  college  career,  his  youthful 
appearance  and  his  recreations,  are  all  recounted. 
His  literary  life,  with  its  early  disappointments  and 
its  later  fame ;  how  he  never  traveled  out  of  England, 
yet  by  extensive  reading  and  prolonged  preparation 
wrote  most  accurately  of  the  other  countries  in  wh  ich 
he  laid  the  scenes  of  his  novels;  how  he  loved  to  write 
with  purple  ink;  the  books  he  wrote  besides  Loma 
Z3oon#  and  what  they  are  about  are  described  in  the 
Introduction, 


And  then  we  have  a  full  description  of  his  best- 
known  novel  Lorna  Doorie.  Rejected  by  18  publishers, 
but  finally  published,  then  neglected  until  a  happy 
chance  brouglit  it  to  fame.  In  the  Introduction  also 
appears  something  of  the  legendary  Doones,  of  the 
kind  of  country  Exmoor  once  was,  what  it  looks  like 
now  and  why  it  was  so  good  a  field  for  romance. 
For  the  teacher  the  whole  field  of  historic  romance 
is  opened  by  suggestion  and  the  opinion  of  others  is 
quoted  as  to  the  literary  value  of  this  novel  and  the 
place  its  author  has  earned  ia  English  literature. 

The  ilhistrations  are  more  abundant  than  in  any- 
other  school  edition.  "Lorna"  herself  appears  in  a 
copy  from  the  well-known  beautiful  portrait  to  be 
found  in  almost  every  household.  Other  illustrations 
show  the  famous  "water  slide",  the  old  Blundell 
School,  the  picture  of  the  Doone  Valley  as  it  looks 
to-day,  and  in  the  portrait  given  we  can  look  into  the 
very  face  of  the  novelist  himself  with  its  strong  fea- 
tures and  good-natured  expression.  The  viap  found 
In  this  edition  does  not  merely  give  the  immediate 
locality  but  also  the  general  view  of  the  west  of 
England,  which  enables  us  to  trace  the  location  of 
the  places  of  the  story  better  than  in  the  mere  local 
map  generally  given. 

The  completeness  of  the  Notes  and  their  conven- 
ience by  being  placed  at  the  bottom  of  the  pages 
■where  they  belong  should  appeal  to  the  teacher  and 
student  at  once.  The  arrangement  of  the  Glossary 
and  its  accompanying  Notes  for  ready  reference,  with 
the  other  features  of  the  book  which  have  been 
pointed  out  will,  we  confidently  believe,  make  this 
the  most  practical  School  edition  yet  published. 


LORNA    DOONE,-  ABRIDGED, 

WITH 

60  CVn/i\' NOTES  AND  GLOSSARY, 

Postpaid 

MAP,    ILLUSTRATIONS    AND 

DATA 

Hinds,   Noble  &  Eldredge 

3  J  -  33 -  35  Vest  J5th  Street,     New  York  Qty 


The  Changing  Values 
of    English    Speech 


Another  book  in  the  inimitable  style  of 
the  author  of  The  Worth  of  Words.  In 
its  nineteen  chapters  —  see  list  of  chaptera 
on  other  side  —  this  new  book  presents  the 
many  aspects  of  value-change  as  exhibited 
in  English  speech,  all  set  forth  with  that 
engaging  facility  of  expression  of  which  the 
author  is  one  or  those  born  masters  who, 
by  dint  of  good,  patient  hard  work  done  in 
a  cheerful  mood  and  toned  by  the  poetic 
spirit,  can  impart  humor  to  simplified  spell- 
ing and  even  into  derivations  can  put  a 
bead  or  sparkle,  and  can  add  another  charm 
even  to  lucidity,  and  make  even  a  dull  topic 
glow  with  interest.  For  one  instance  among 
the  many  instances,  ia  the  chapter  on 
Langtiage-Change,  one  finds  this: 

"Languape-chanfre  is  not  always  lanpuage-growth 
— ^but  is  often  mistaken  for  growtti.  Language  will 
change  as  human  interests  change.  No  one  should 
wish  to  restrict  its  elasticity  or  retard  its  normal 
growth ;  but  we  should  see  to  it,  that  it  does  not 
over-run  the  fair  garden  of  the  soul  in  wild,  un- 
cultivated prof  usion  ....  Our  language  is  virtual- 
ly a  thing  of  life.  Each  one  of  us  owes  it  a  precise 
duty.  No  one  has  a  rii^ht  to  sin  at^ainst  his  mother 
tongue,  and  no  one  should  be  excused  for  so  doing. 
Our  words  of  daily  use  deserve  and  demand  tha 
same  hygienic  cleanliness  that  our  persons  deserve 
and  demand.  Beauty  demands  that  they  shall  not 
be  mutilated;  utility  demands  that  they  shall  not  be 
confused; decency  demands  that  they  shall  not  be 
degraded;  justice  assures  them  consideration.  It  is 
aslmportant  to  conserve  the  integrity  and  morality 
of  words,  as  of  peoples  ;  indeed,  the  morality  in  one 
case  may  largely  depend  upon  that  of  the  other. 
Clean  speech  is  as  wholesome  as  fine  linen.  Careful 
speech  is  a  form  of  real  etiquette.  Beautiful  words 
are  better  than  royal  purples  .  .  .  ,  " 


THE  CONTENTS 


The  White  Island  (Britain) 

The  Aborigines 

English 

Early  English 

Changing  Values 

Language-Change 

The  Soul  of  Words 

Poetry  and  lis  "Thread- 
bare" Themes 

Syntax  and  a    xnord   with 
Professor  Lounsbury 

Intensives 


Variations  in  Word-meanings 

Style 

Distinctions  in  Word-mean- 
ings 
Some  Further  Distinctions 
The  Origin  of  Language 
Some  Old  Celtic  Friends 
English  Orthography 
Words  Which  Have  Chang, 
ed  Since  Shakspere  Wrote 
The  Tragedie  of  Macbeth 
Common-place  Poetry 


The  same  author's  Other  book,  The  Worth 
of  IVords^  has  treated  its  subject  in  a  new 
and  simple  manner,  and  after  his  own 
peculiar  style,  which  is  never  dry.  It 
is  touched  with  glowing  humor,  deft  strokes 
of  irony,  and  bright  flashes  of  wit.  It  is 
for  the  student,  the  teacher,  the  doctor,  the 
lawyer,  the  editor,  the  preacher,  the  man  of 
affairs  —  in  short,  for  every  person  who 
would  speak  and  write  and  think  ia  good 
English. 


THE  CHANGING  VALUES  OF  ENGLISH  SPEECH 

CLOTH  — $1.25  postpaid—  GILT  TOP 

THE  WORTH   OF  WORDS 

CiaiYi— %l. 25  postpaid— GWJY  TOP 


Hinds,  Noble  &  Eldredge 

3 J -33-35  West  J5th  Street,         New  York  City 


Choose  Your  Words 


BY 

ESSIE  BOCK 


Choose  your  words,  is  tlie  advice  1  offer  not  alone  to 
several  thousand  tyros,  but  to  every  writer  big  and 
little  who  does  not  possess  THE  worth  of  words. 

We  are  indebted  to  Ralcy  Husted  Bell  for  many 
beautiful  poems;  but  nothing  that  he  has  ever  written 
is  of  more  value  than  THE  WORTH  OF  words.  This 
book  should  be  the  means  of  correcting  much  slip-shod 
English,  not  only  among  students  of  writing,  but  among 
persons  of  every  class;  for  it  is  not  WTitten  in  a  lack- 
lustre style  which  appeals  to  one  merely  from  a  sense 
of  duty.  It  is  a  book  of  knowledge  which  entertains. 
The  chapter  on  Slang  is  as  good  as  a  page  from  life. 

Now  let  me  explain  my  presumption  in  offering  this 
advice  to  the  literati.  Being  still  only  at  the  foot  of  the 
writers*  ladder,  unsupported  advice  from  me  would 
have  little  weight  and  no  authority.  Therefore  I  offer 
a  few  citations  which  I  think  will  prove  that  I  am  not 
far  wrong  in  saying  that  no  one  who  writes  should  be 
without  a  copy  of  this  book. 

In  the  cosmopolitan  for  August  one  of  our  foremost 
authors  "walked  past"  painted  store-fronts.  Don't  hug 
your  dictionary;  for  your  dictionary  tells  you  much 
that  has  no  place  in  good  English.  Many  of  us  speak 
American,  but  when  we  write,  we  must  use  English. 

This  same  writer  used  the  expression  healthy  camp 
for  healthful  camp.  It  is  obvious  that  he  should  have 
said,  walked  by  instead  of  tvalked past  those  store-fronts. 

In  the  August  tiumber  of  good  housekeeping  a  well 
known  writer  says  "  have  got"  Now,  if  you  got  some- 
thing yesterday  you  may  still  have  it  to-day.  You  might 
as  well  say  that  you  had  got  it  yesterday  as  you  have  got 
it  to-day.  Have,  alone,  denotes  possession ;  and  if  you 
have  a  thing  you  got  it  somehow,  didn't  you? 

To  return  to  the  magazine  writers.  In  the  cosmo- 
politan I  read:  "She  experienced  her  first  loneliness." 
Experience  used  as  a  verb  is  poor  taste.  I  will  not  go 
into  details  —  THE  worth  of  words  does  that  But 
how  much  better  it  would  have  been  to  say:  "She 
suffered  her  first  loneliness,"  or,  "passed  through  her 


first  loneliness."  Experience  here  should  palpably  be 
displaced  by  suffer.  There  was  a  time  when  I  might 
have  said  replaced  in  a  similar  instance.  But  replace 
means  to  put  back,  while  it  is  only  required  to  force 
experience  out  by  substituting  a  clearer  term. 

One  of  our  authors  praised  as  a  "bom  master  of 
English"  uses  "hoses"  as  the  plural  of  hose.  And  he 
got  it  printed!  Where  was  the  proof-reader?  So,  wage 
is  often  used,  although  wages  is  singular. 

Another  of  our  well  known  authors,  who  seems  proud 
of  his  simplicity  of  expression,  in  a  recent  book  of  Es- 
says uses  "gubernatorial"  and  "humanitarian"  and 
"presidential"  and  other  words  of  the  same  class. 
Gubernatorial  and  presidential  are  incorrectly  formed. 
See  THE  WORTH  OF  WORDS.  As  to  humanitarian,  no 
other  word  is  more  shamefully  misused  tlian  this.  A 
humane  person  is  not  necessarily  a  humanitarian.  For, 
as  Dr.  Bell  taught  me,  a  humanitarian  means  "one  who 
denies  the  godhead  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  insists  upon  his 
human  nature."  I  can  see  no  reason  why  there  should 
not  be  humane  Christians,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that 
there  are  cruel  humanitarians.  We  should  have  some 
linguistic  means  of  separating  the  sheep  from  the  goats. 

Ralcy  Husted  Bell  says  that  pedants  and  "small 
potatoes"  are  prone  to  use  this  class  of  words.  For 
one,  I  agree  with  him;  and,  for  one,  I  protest  against 
ambiguity  in  the  use  of  words  just  as  I  should  protest 
against  personal  slovenliness.  We  need  clear  and  clean 
speech  as  well  as  good  clothes  and  sweet  hnen. 

There  are  any  number  of  words  in  daily  misuse  by 
newspaper  writers  and  book  authors,  such  as  telegram, 
mutual,  unique,  affable,  allude  etc.,  etc.  And  many  other 
words,  which  are  not  words,  are  habitually  placed  in 
good  society  where  they  do  not  belong. 

The  worth  of  words,  is  a  short-cut  to  good  English. 
The  price  of  the  volume  will  not  stand  in  the  way  of 
anyone  who  needs  it.  On  one's  desk  it  serves  as  an 
excellent  disinfectant  of  diseased  English.  It  is  also  a 
stimulant  to  taste  in  the  choice  of  good  words.  I  am 
grateful  to  Dr.  Bell  for  THE  WORTH  OF  words  and  his 
other  two  books  (listed  below). 

HINDS,  NOBLE  &  ELDREDGE    ■    .    Publishers  of 

The  Worth  of  Words,  $1.25  postpaid. 

The  Changing  Values  of  English  Speech,  $1.25. 

The  Religion  of  Beauty,  $1.25  postpaid. 

31.33-35  West  15th  Street  New  York  City 


Mastering    a   Classic 

Having  read  a  book,  are  you  prepared  to  declare 
that  you  have  made  it  really  your  own?  Can  you 
discuss  it  or  write  about  it  in  a  thoroughly  intelli- 
gent  and  comprehensive  way,  as  if  you  had  really 
sized  it  up  completely  ? 

There  are  many  text-books  on  literature.  But  so 
far  no  work  has  appeared  which  provides  sytematic 
instruction  in  the  study  of  literature  itself,  applicable 
to  every  classic,  let  us  say,  or  to  any  classic. 

Such  a  book  we  published  last  year.  It  is  entitled 
How  to  Study  Literature,  It  is  a  guide  to  the  study  of 
literary  productions.  Taking  up  Narrative  Poetry 
first,  an  outline  is  given,  in  the  form  of  questions, 
which  will  lead  the  student  to  comprehend  the  sub- 
ject matter,  to  analyze  the  structure,  to  study  the 
characters,  the  descriptions,  the  style  and  the  metre — 
of  such  a  work  for  example  as  Tennyson's  "Princess" 
or  Coleridge's  "  Ancient  Mariner."  Next  follows 
Lyric  Poetry,  udth  questions  for  the  study  of  the  thought, 
the  mood,  the  style,  the  metre ;  and  suggestions 
for  comparative  study  and  collateral  reading.  In  a 
similar  way  the  drama,  the  essay,  the  oration  and  the 
novel  are  taken  up,  and  questions  given  which  will  lead 
to  a  full  comprehension  of  the  work  studied. 

The  author  is  a  successful  teacher  in  one  of  the 
great  normal  schools.  The  book  grew  up  in  the  class 
loom,  and  so  is  practical  in  every  detail,  not  only 
adapted  for  class  use  in  schools,  but  also  the  very  thing 
for  literary  societies,  reading  circles,  and  fireside  Study. 

The  list  of  terms  it  contains  to  designate  any 
literary  quality  or  characteristic  one  may  wish  to 
describe,  is  alone  worth  having. 

TeacJiers  luho  have  tested  this  book  as  a  class-hook,  in  con* 
■nection  with  our  new  device  for  recording  one' s  reading 
(books  I  HAVE  READ,  2$  Cents  postpaid)  assure  us  that 
their  pupils  benefit  to  the  extent  of  eight  to  twelve  added 
foints  in  examinations. 


How   To   Study   Literature 

Price  7J  ccfits,  postpaid 

HINDS,  NOBLE  &  ELDREDGE,  Publishers 
3J-33-35  West  I5th  Street  New  York  City 


text  Books  on  EnglisD 


Price 
Heydrick's  One  Year  Course  in  English  and 

American  Literature      .              .               .  fl.OO 

Heydrick's  How  to  Study  Literature             .  .75 

Sheran's  Handbook  of  Literary  Criticism    .  1.35 

Smyth's  American  Literature           .               .  90 

Trimble's  Hand  Book  of  Eng.  and  Amer.  Liter.  liso 

Trimble's  Short  Course  in  Literature            .  1.00 

Southwick's  Short  Studies  in  Literature       .  .6(J 

Burke's  Letter  to  the  Sheriffs  of  Bristol       .     ■>  .60 

Bell'sThe  Worth  of  Words               .               .  1.25 

Bell's  The  Chanffing  Values  of  English  Speech  1.25 

Esenwein's  Writing  the  Short  Story              .  1.25 

A  Brief  Outline  of  the  Books  I  Have  Read  (^Hix)  .25 

Fifty  English  Classics  Briefly  Outlined  Hix]  1.25 

Complete  Outline  of  "Merchant  of  Venice"  .80 

Lorna  Doone  f  cr  Schools  (Annotated  by  Davis)  .60 

Famous  Poems  E.xplained  ^Barbf)  .              .  l.OO 

Popular  Patriotic  Poems  Explained  (Murphy)  ,65 

Hart's  Language  Lessons  for  Beginners       .  .20 

Hart's  Elementary  Grammar           .              ,  .VS 

Hart's  English  Grammar  and  Analysis        .  .65 

Hart's  First  Lessons  in  Composition             .  -65 

Gideon's  Lessons  in  Language         .              .  .38 

Gideon's  Exercises  in  English          .              .  .46 

Rigdon's  English  Grammar  for  Beginners  .40 

Rigdon'3  English  Gram,  for  Common  Schools  .60 

Rigdon  s  Grammar  of  the  English  Sentence  .85 

Rigdon's  Outlines,  Infinitives,  Participles  .25 

Maris'  Normal  English  Grammar    .               .  .50 

Buck's  Course  in  Eng.  Gram.  &  Anal.,  Book  I  .40 

Buck's  Coursein  Eng.  Gram.  &  Anal.,  Book  II  .60 

The  Model  Etymology  (;r.r*5}         .              .  .53 

A  Manual  of  Etymology  (/PVW)       .              .  .75 

The  Model  Definer(«^^W)                 .              .  .88 

Radford's  Composition  and  Rhetoric             .  1.00 

Hart's  Composition  and  Rhetoric  (New  Edit.)  1.00 

Hart's  Essentials  of  Prose  Composition        .  .65 

Hart's  Hand  Book  of  English  Composition       j  1.00 

Heydrick's  Short  Studies  in  Composition  .60 

Composition  Writing  Made  Easy  {Ballard)  .75 

LOOO  Composition  Subjects  Classified  (Kirkland)  .35 

Common  Errors  in  Writing  and  Speaking  (Ellis)  .50 

Bad  English  Corrected  (Hathaway)                .  .80 

How  to  Punctuate  Correctly             .              ,  .25 

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With  Our  Compliments 

Complete  General  Index 
"THE  SPEAKER" 


Frotn  now  on  no  librarian  and  no  teacher  need  balk  at 
the  requests  of  students  for  guidance  to  approved  selections. 

"The  Speaker"  is  a  series  of  32  books  or  "Numbers" 
of  about  125  pages  each,  containing  the  best  literature 
for  recitations.  It  has  raised  the  standard  of  recitation 
and  declamation;  and  in  recognition  of  this  fact  "The 
Speaker"  has  been  admitted  to  the  official  librarian 
lists  of  many  of  the  States. 

Each  of  the  32  Numbers  is  bound  separately  and 
contains  a  careful  index  of  its  own  contents.  Also, 
Numbers  1,  2,  3,  4  are  bound  together  in  one  stout 
tome ;  likewise  Numbers  5,  6,  7,  8 ;  likewise  the  suc- 
ceeding groups  of  four,  forming  8  generous  tomes,  and 
each  of  these  has  its  own  index  by  authors  and  titles. 
^  But  not  content  with  these  self-indexes,  and  com- 
plying with  the  request  of  many  librarians  and  teachers, 
we  have  now  published  in  one  unit  a  COMPLETE  IN- 
DEX to  all  the  selections  in  all  of  the  32  Numbers.  This 
COMPLETE  INDEX  is  a  separate  book,  and  will  make 
all  of  them  even  more  serviceable  than  they  have  been. 
^  This  COMPLETE  INDEX  is  by  authors  (664  authors) 
and  by  titles  (1690  titles),  indicating  for  each  the  page 
of  that  Number  of  "The  Speaker"  where  to  be  found. 

For  the  present  "The  Speaker"  will  be  discontinued 

as  a  periodical,  and  no  new  Numbers  published. 

The  large  VOL.  VIII  contains  the  GENERAL  INDEX 

as  well  as  its  self-index;  and  VOLS.  I  to  VII,  in  turn 

when  next  printed,   will  also  be  fitted  out  with  the 

GENERAL  INDEX.    The  price  will  not  be  advanced. 

Prices — "The  Speaker" 

NUMBERS  1  to  32 each-paper  40  cts. ;  cloth  60  cts. 

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II  (Nos.   5,  6,   7,   ^  bound  together) cloth    1.50 

III  (Nos.   9, 10, 11, 12  bound  together) cloth    1.50 

IV  (Nos.  13. 14. 15. 16  bound  together) cloth    1.50 

V  (Nos.  17, 18, 19, 20  bound  together) cloth    1.50 

VI  (Nos.  21,  22, 23.  24  bound  together) cloth    1.50 

VII  (Nos.  25,  26,  27,  28  bound  together) cloth    1.50 

VIII  (Nos.  29,  30,  31, 32  bound  together) cloth    1.50 

COMPLETE  INDEX  to  all  Numbers,  ONE  COPY  GRATIS 
to  Librarians  and  Teachers 


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THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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Series  9482 


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AA     001363  723       6 


